


Nomance

by test_kard_girl



Series: The Reverseverse [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Multi, Other, Season/Series 01, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nomance: Episode 2 of the 'Reverseverse' series. </p><p>Tensions heighten as the gleeks struggle to cope with the pressure of Open Auditions and the fact that no-one, not anywhere, is getting any.</p><p>...Except maybe on-stage, in a worryingly horny rendition of 'Push It'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It feels different this morning, Puck reflects with a jittery kind of optimism as his fingers fumble over chaining his bike up.

Yeah, the mathletes are still giggling; but they’re only on the periphery of Puck’s awareness and he really doesn’t care what they think (well, he’s trying not to anyway). He forces himself to keep his chin up and walk the long walk down the hall past the cool kids’ lockers to his own without staring at his holey sneakers for most of the trip, and only a few hostile pairs of eyes follow him more than a couple of metres. When he passes the choir-room door he makes a wide berth around Jacob’s skulking figure, but for once the disgruntled brainiac doesn’t try and attack Puck with his voice-recorder, which has got to be a good thing.

At their usual step, Quinn and Santana have been joined by the harmless but unbelievably ditzy Brittany, and Puck lifts his hand in his customary half-salute. Quinn smiles automatically back (she’s been noticeably cooler with him since Finn jumped shipped to hang with the gleeks, as if Puck’s supposed to be like Finn’s carer or something, wtf?) but Santana’s silence is worth a gazillion pleasantries, and when he’s at a safe distance Puck can’t help the relieved, happy grin that pushes across his own mouth and he rubs at the back of his neck, kind of embarrassed by his giddiness.

But whatever the unexpected good feelings, when Puck rounds the corner with a bit of a spring in his step, he isn’t prepared to find Kurt leaning lazily back against Puck’s locker, arms and ankles crossed in the image of Top Model nonchalance, tantalising little smirk on his face.

Puck stops a foot and a half from the other boy, palms going instantly clammy. He opens his mouth, trying valiantly to remember some traditional morning greetings; but (luckily) Kurt beats him to it:

“Well good morning Noah Puckerman.” He drawls, words rolling from his tongue, and Puck feels the blood in his veins heat up by, oh, a coupla thousand degrees.

“Um. Hi.” Puck replies, just about managing not to squeak. Inwardly, he slaps himself across the face.

But today, Kurt doesn’t look embarrassed or disgusted or haughtily disdainful about Puck’s inability to be coherent. Instead, he just stares back at Puck’s slightly-paler-than-normal face for a moment and takes a bit of a breath, before pushing himself gracefully away from the locker and brushing some imaginary lint from the sleeve of his jacket.

A few minutes later the bell goes— but Puck has no idea what he should be doing about that, because he has the cold metal of a locker behind him and the warm body of the hottest diva in school pressed tight against his and really, yeah, everything feels different today, and this is the best,  _best_  morning ever.

  
*

  
Rachel tosses her hair out of her eyes as she belts out ‘Don’t Stop’s final refrain, fist punching the air:

_‘Don’t stop, believin’!_

_(and step one, two, three)_

_Hold onto that feeeeeliiiin’…_

She smiles to herself. She hasn’t seen New Directions this energised over a new number in  _months_. But now— just a few short days after the vicious slushy attack that brought them nearly to the brink of destruction— the group have a new song and a brand new image —with Rachel Berry at the very centre of it.

_Streetlight, people-oh-oh-ohhhhh_

Ok, so  _technically_  ‘Don’t Stop’ was Finn’s idea. But he could never have fully implemented it without her, and that stellar combination of Hudson and Berry—Hudsonberry, if you will— seems to have been the magical elixir New Directions needed.

_Don’t stop, believin’!_

Thanks to the quarterback’s surprising moment of musical insight, paired with Rachel’s well-honed determination, she and Finn are the faces of ‘Don’t Stop’; the power-couple; belting out the song that is going to win back Rachel’s legion of starstruck groupies and conquer a whole new demographic, with Finn’s undeveloped vocals and clumsy dance moves ensuring the showchoir stage will once again be  _all hers._

_Hold onto that feeeeeliiiin’…_

Oh, of course, she likes Finn well enough. She likes him  _very well_  actually, and she can’t deny she’s always had a bit of an ‘uptown girl’ niggle for rough and ready jock-types—But honestly, she could hardly have orchestrated a more perfect professional resurgence if she’d been handed a pair of gold lame hotpants and the rights to Kylie’s back-catalogue.

_Streetlight people-oh-oh-ohhhhhhhhhhh-oh-ohhh_

And to think: three weeks ago Kurt had  _sneered_  at her.

_Don’t stop!!!_

Rachel drops her head, whole body thrilling to the adrenaline of a top-notch performance, even as Finn’s garbled howl reaches her ears and there’s the metallic clatter of steel against linoleum somewhere to her left.

“Owow ow… _shhh…_ ” Finn barely manages to suppress his curse-word, turning it instead into a heart-felt apology: “… _Shh_ orry Mr Schuester….”

Rachel glances up, just in time to see Finn pick up the chair he’d accidentally kicked into the far wall and set it gingerly back down in its place in the front row.

Mr Schuester has one hand gripped tightly over his eyes.

“You guys suck.” He mutters “Seriously. You SUCK… Ok, two minutes. If you’ve got some performance enhancers, now would be the time. ”

He waves a dismissive hand at them, and Rachel immediately takes the cue to pull her hair over her shoulder and make a beeline for her water.

Finn’s there first and holds the bottle out to her.

“Sorry for messin’ it up.” He murmurs, scuffing his shoe sheepishly against the floor. Rachel takes a swig of water, then glances up at the wonderfully tall baritenor, granting him one of her most brilliant smiles.

“It’s quite alright Finn. Not all of us have been winning Miss Twinkletoes Ohio since the second grade.” She presses a gentle palm to the side of his cheek: “That’s eight years.” She reminds him. “Consecutively.”

Finn smiles back at her, looking starry-eyed if a little uncomprehending: “Right.”  
  
She taps his cheek and goes back to drinking her water. Two minutes is not long enough to rehydrate, but if she’s told Mr Schue this once she’s told him a hundred times.

“Do you think Jock-O-Saur’s gonna be able to nail it before Thursday?” Artie asks, wheeling over with his bright red fender in his lap like he’s overcompensating for something.

“I don’t think I can remember this many dance moves.” Finn admits, running sweaty, frustrated hands through his hair.

Rachel glances at him over her water. “Of course you can sweetie—you don’t have a choice.”

Finn’s eyes widen.

“I suppose at least if Finn messes up horrifically, his Gulliver-like build will shield the rest of us from the inevitable barrage of rotten fruit.” Kurt shrugs, and Puckerman hastily disguises a snort of laughter in an unconvincing cough. Rachel fixes him in a coolly withering stare.

“Well,  _I’m_  feeling good about it.” Mercedes interjects, jamming her hands on her hips like a challenge. “The thing’s got  _soul_. Though I there’s no way I should be stuck at the back harmonising with the Twilight twins.”

“Hey, it’s called skincare.” Kurt holds up a finger.

“Whatever Cullen; I saw you glittering in the noonday sun.”

“One minute guys!”

“Mr Schuester?” Rachel passes her water back to Finn, hopping down to floor-level from the riser she had been standing on (Finn really is  _freakishly_ tall).

“Yes, Rachel?”

Rachel pulls her hand down, ignoring the weariness in Mr Schue’s voice. He most always sounds like that when she speaks to her.

“So, I know the whole point of Thursday’s pep assembly is to rebuild school morale—”

“—it’s to rebuild the  _Glee Club_  Rachel.”

She waves a hand. “Same thing. But my worry is that after we perform ‘Don’t Stop’ the student body are going to be so affected by the calibre and empathetic sentiments of the number that we simply won’t be able to audition everyone who wants to join.”

“We should set up a helpline…” Artie muses.

Rachel nods emphatically: “I mean, we can’t have forty or fifty members— it would be  _absurd_ , and really, it would make a mockery of the audition process.”

Mr Schuester smirks, cocking his head a little at the sincerity in Rachel’s voice.

“While I kind of admire your sudden enthusiasm for inclusivity Rachel, I don’t suppose I have to remind you that there’s a network of corridors in this school especially mapped out by one particularly disgruntled shop class as the best routes for getting from one side of the school to the other without running into you guys—  _and_  that it’s recommended by the chaplaincy team.”

Rachel pouts: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Mr Schuester’s smirk widens just a little, and Rachel has the distinct feeling he’s almost impressed by her.

“Well let’s just say I don’t think we’re gonna have a huge problem with oversubscription.” He says, leaning back against the piano (from the corner of her eyes Rachel sees Brad’s stare turn flinty) “But just in case, Mr Puckerman here—”

Noah glances up from where he seems to have been concentrating hard on kneading his gnarly Cro-Magnon knuckles into the back of Kurt’s shoulders.

“—and whatever other pointlessly athletic friends he has should get their names on the audition list ASAP.”

Rachel watches amusedly as Puckerman tries and fails to assemble an enthusiastic grin. He looks terrified by the entire prospect.

“It’s Friday, right?” She hears the line-backer whisper to Kurt, who tilts his ear far closer to Puckerman’s mouth than is strictly necessary. “The audition?”

“Yes, Friday.” Kurt replies shortly. Then he turns his head and murmurs something in Puckerman’s ear that has the footballer’s hands instantly returning to the exposed skin at the nape of Kurt’s slash-neck sweater.

Rachel wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t know when her fellow diva-in-crime decided to retract his ban on PDA with the mohawked deviant, but she rather misses it.

“I don’t have to audition, do I Mr Schuester?” Finn asks, glancing nervously at the wall with the Glist pinned to it, his name second from the top: “I mean, I’ve already learned a bunch of numbers…”

“No Finn.” Mr Schue assures him, gesturing at Brad to flip back to the start of his sheet music. “I don’t think any of us want to endure that embarrassment, do we?”

“I guess not.” Finn replies quietly, and Rachel gives him a patient smile in return, spinning around and slipping her arms around his waist, enjoying how his whole body goes stiff at even her most innocent touches. It’s  _adorable_.

“So.” she purrs, changing the subject and gazing up at him “It’s been almost two days since Jacob’s posted anything scandalous about us on his infamous  _‘FroShow_  Youtube channel. How about we arrange a passionate rendezvous for Wednesday evening?” she moves a little closer, and doesn’t miss how Finn’s eyes automatically flick down to check that  _yes_ ; those are her perfectly formed breasts pressing against his abs.

“Uh…” With some monumental effort, he drags his gaze back up to meet hers: “Um, Wednesday?” he seems to be having trouble forming sentences “I mean… Can we do another day that isn’t Wednesday? I kind of have… other stuff.”

_Excuse me?_

Rachel takes a very definite step backwards, and Finn looks instantly bereft.

“ _’Other stuff’_?” she repeats, raising newly waxed eyebrows. She resists the urge to lean around his body and check if Kurt is listening in. Instead, she just lowers her voice: “More important than me?”

“No!” Finn gasps, colour draining from his face. “No, just…Wednesday nights are Celibacy Club—”

“ _—Celibacy Club_??”

And  _of course_  Mercedes had her gossip-radar out.

“Damn—” she glances round at the assembled gleeks in wicked amusement “We thought that was just a legend!”

“I think it’s sweet.” Artie interjects, voice dripping sugary sarcasm: “It’s nice that you can get together and discuss your loneliness and probable frigidity.”

Finn’s face is turning steadily puce— one of the many colours Kurt has specified New Directions are never permitted to wear onstage.

“I know it’s… It’s really dumb,” he flails, pushing his hands further into his pockets, like he’s trying to fold in on himself “and Quinn’s kind of crazy and all--”

The name sends an unexpected prickle of annoyance across Rachel’s skin, and she narrows her eyes at her awkwardly shuffling boyfriend:

“Quinn? As in  _Fabray_?”

Finn looks helpless: “Well yeah; there’s not that many ‘Quinn’s’ around…”  
  
But Rachel cuts him off with an exasperated huff that she hopes covers how genuinely disbelieving she is. Honestly: it’s as if Finn  _wants_  social castration.

“No Finn. I don’t want you socialising with her.” She says, very aware of the smirks beginning on the faces of the other gleeks around her. “She’s a bad influence… And I’m fairly sure she’s planted cameras in your bedroom.”

“She’s not that bad.” Finn protests; but it sounds weak. “I mean, she’s a bit… off the wall… But we used to spend a lot of time together, and I don’t want her to think I’ve just forgotten her…”

“But you have, haven’t you?” Rachel prompts, feeling the frustration pooling in her stomach and crossing her arms tight across her body. Can’t he ever just say the right thing in public?

With some effort, she schools her features into a softer expression and asks: “Why would you want a friend like her when you’ve got me?”

It’s a question that is never going to have an answer, of course. What  _could_  Finn Hudson, the luckiest quarterback in the world, answer to that?

Nevertheless, he fumbles for a minute, before Rachel reaches out and places a hand gently against his chest.

“You’re right.” Finn says, almost at once; as if she’d pressed a button.

Rachel gazes at him for a just a second more; then steps closer again, resuming their chest-to-chest contact :

“I know sweetie.” She smiles briefly. “You just need to learn to believe me.”

She leans up to peck him on the lips, a little reward for his obedience.

Poor Finn. Poor misguided Finn.

If he wasn’t the key to regaining her crown as Queen of the school, Rachel might have stormed out by now.  
  


*  
  


“So Schuester.”

Will’s first instinct is to start at that sweet, satin-smooth purr; but he composes himself and spends five long extra seconds reading the essay paper in front of him before he lifts his eyes to meet the perfectly coordinated figure of Emma Pillsbury standing silhouetted in his office doorway.

Man; he has never seen such an  _appealing_  looking Ginger.

Cooly, Will tucks his pen behind his ear:

“Emma.” He smiles broadly and winningly “To what do I owe the pleas—?”

“— I hear you want to be a guidance counsellor?”

Ok; didn’t expect that. Will feels his smile skid off the edge of his mouth.

“Uh…” he flattens his palms against his desk. “No.” he shakes his head “God no. That’d be…” he remembers who he’s talking to “…something I’m certainly not qualified for…”

“Well, I gotta agree Will, but that’s strange because clearly, you think that your opinions are far more valid than mine.”

Pointedly, Emma unrolls a sheet of paper in her long, slim fingers, and holds it out for Will to look at: it’s his Glee Club audition list, one drawing pin still hanging listlessly from the top left corner.

Will’s mouth makes a nervous little ‘o’ shape.

Emma joins him in frowning at the list, taking a few lazy steps closer. “You see, I have this crazy memory of you coming to me all in a tizz yesterday afternoon, curls corkscrewing all over the place, humidifying my workspace, freaking out ‘cos Figgins was forcing your precious Glee Club to sell-out and start making new recruits out of single-celled amoeba, turning your whole extracurricular teaching career into a laughing stock.”

Will gulps as nonchalantly as he can, unable to look away from the frostiness in Emma’s Autumn-brown irises.

“Yeah, I… That definitely happened—”

“—You came to me for  _guidance_ , Will. And I gave you guidance. And then this morning, I come in and find three cheerleaders outside my office suffering from acute shock, and  _this_  pinned to my noticeboard.”

Emma opens her hand and the offending list floats incongruously down to land on top of the pile of Spanish papers Will had been working through.

“Is there any particular reason you think my Master of Psychology degree is invalid, Schuester?”

Will snatches the audition list and pulls it close to himself ‘cos, yeah: this needs to go back on the wall at some point.

“Em, come on, you know I value your advice over  _anyone_  else’s—”

“—Oh you’ve made it  _quite clear_  how much you value my advice.”  
  
Emma crosses her arms tightly over her chest, and Will tries very hard not to stare.

“Look.” He says eventually, throwing up his hands. “Emma, I’m really sorry I didn’t do what you said, but, y’know—it wasn’t  _personal._ ” He explains.

Emma narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s just… I really feel like I can make this club something special.” Will enthuses. “I feel like New Directions are gonna be my  _legacy_  at this school.”

“How sad for you.” Emma deadpans; but Will holds her gaze, remaining strong:

“…And this thing about open auditions…” He shrugs. “Y’know, who said it’s gonna be all football players and puckheads? There’re kids all over drama club who can sing, and at least the jazz band know how to harmonise... It’s like: instead of destroying the club, Figgins has just hand-delivered me all this raw, untapped potential. All I need to do now is mould them into shape.” He makes grabby hands. “Like little jock-shaped blobs of play-doh.”

“You know Sandy Ryerson got fired for that.” Emma points out.

“Look, just… I’d really like you to be involved.” Will reiterates, and decides to chance his luck. He leans back across his desk, fixing Emma in what he hopes is a sincere gaze.

“Come along to auditions this Friday. I could use a right hand girl. Someone with  _class_ —”

Emma’s face breaks into a smile, as she glances at the ceiling in disbelief:

“…Oh that’s  _adorable_  Will…” she patronises. “…But you realise I have, like, no musical experience; and even less interest…”

“Trust me Em;” Will tries his best charming grin again “you don’t want to miss this. It’s gonna be really special.”

For a long minute, Emma just frowns at him, as if he’s a particularly puzzling reptile. Then, slowly, she reaches down and swipes a finger through the fine layer of dust at the edge of Will’s desk. When she looks back at him, her look is one of utter disgust.

“What’s  _really_  special, Will.” She murmurs, gazing at him over her grimy finger. “Is your idea that  _anyone else_  in this school gives two owl-hoots about the ‘life-changing power’ of musical theatre. Your kids are limelight-sluts; that’s all. Destined for fifteen minutes of fame and the long drop to rehab. And you’re the worst one of all. And if you pester me again about joining your little singing chipmunk parade, you can watch your sham of a teaching career be brought to an abrupt and spectacular end thanks to a speedily diagnosed sex addiction.”

Then, she smiles very brightly—teeth  _very_  white— wipes her finger neatly down the front of Will’s shirt, and struts from the room.

Will swallows.

 _God_.

He  _needs_  to stop finding Emma Pillsbury’s control issues so hot.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking on board Mr Schue’s warning, Puck heads to the bulletin board directly after sixth period, scrabbling in his backpack to find a pen that doesn’t leak all over his hands and leave incriminating fingerprints. He wants to join glee; of course he does. It’s just,  _man_ ; the idea of being a permanent member of that torture regiment still kind of makes him want to blow chunks all over his shoes. 

He prints his name as fast and as neat as he can on the next free line of the audition list, eyes skating nervously around the faces of all the other students cluttering up the hallway, and starts; freezing like a meerkat at the sudden touch of another boy’s slim hands curling around his hips.

“So; I imagine you’ll be needing some assistance with your audition song.” Kurt muses, leaning past Puck’s back and trailing his finger dismissively down the handful of other names on the list.  

Puck takes a deep breath, nostrils full of mint and vanilla. 

“Uh… That you offerin’?” He replies, taking his time about straightening up again. He likes that Kurt stays close for a moment, even though his eyes are unreadable as always. “I mean; that’d be awesome. I’ve never sung in front of people— y’know, an audience before. I don’t even know what I’m good at, or what—” 

“—Well that’s very strange.” Kurt interrupts smoothly, raising his eyebrows: “Because I have this extremely vivid memory of you singing to a lunchroom full of people. On one knee. Accompanied by strategically placed band members.”

“Oh.” Puck’s mouth forms a clueless little ‘o’ and his face flushes, like it does pretty much every time he remembers that particularly embarrassing moment in their history. “Well…Yeah. Aside from that…. But that was kind of…” He stuffs his hands awkwardly in his pockets. “…Special circumstances.”

“Mmm.” Kurt flashes him an incomprehensible kind of smirk, tugging his iPhone from his jeans pocket and meandering off down the hallway. After a moment’s considering, Puck trots helplessly after him. 

“So do you think, maybe, you  _could_  help me?” He chances, hitching his bag further up his shoulder.

At once, Kurt stops, turning back around so they’re almost nose to nose as Puck pulls to a halt.

“…Do you want me?”

Puck’s tongue flicks disbelievingly over his lips: 

“ _What?_ ”

“To  _help you_.” Kurt reiterates, mouth curving into a demure little smile.

“Oh…” Puck tries to look like that was totally what he was thinking, hooking thumbs tight into his belt loops in an effort to make his shuffling look anything less than freakishly awkward. “Um, yeah?” He tries to sound more sure: “I mean,  _yeah_ ; if you’re not, y’know, busy or—”

“—Well how about tonight?” Kurt suggests, reaching across and sliding his fingers into Puck’s front pockets, pulling their bodies unexpectedly closer: “Eight o’clock? Your place?”

Puck’s brain stutters at the proximity, the warmth of Kurt’s hands, body,  _skin_  so near it makes the hairs on his arms prickle. He wishes Kurt would press his fingers just a little  _deeper_ ; wishes there wasn’t denim between them.

“Sure.” He breathes, and Kurt smiles back at him: 

“Excellent.” He leans up, hands tightening in Puck’s jeans to keep his balance, and his lips brush teasingly at his ear: “It’s a date.” 

Then the other boy neatly disentangles himself, spinning on his heel and striding away towards the parking lot, casting only a nonchalant little goodbye wave over his shoulder and leaving Puck breathless once more in the middle of the hallway.

 

*

  
“You don’t need this crap do you?”

Terri tries not to feel too hurt, as Will drags her pile of spotless craft books from under their place in the bookcase: 

“Well; it is important to me to have a creative outlet--”

“—I knew you’d understand.” Will interrupts, grinning up at her as he starts flicking open the dust-covers, checking the bookstore prices. He gestures at her scrapbooking set: “This is about sixty bucks worth, right?”

Terri nibbles at her bottom lip, crossing her arms across her chest. 

“I guess…” 

“Figgins is being an ass about the Glee Club.” Will finally admits, piling the books up on the dining table. “Says we need an extra sixty big ones a month dollars to keep the club going, now we’re gonna be a competitive team.” He scrunches up his nose, considering: “Y’know, sometimes, I think he just doesn’t like me very much.”  

Terri processes that: “So you wanna sell _our_  stuff to keep some school club running?”

“Glee Club, baby. Glee Club.” Will reminds her, like that makes it all ok. “And it’s only sixty dollars a month. What the hell are you gonna use it for?”

Terri stares at her husband, dumbstruck:

“We’re _having a baby_  Will.” 

“Well yeah, sure; but not for another eight months, right?” Will bends down, pressing a kiss to his wife’s stomach. “I’ll make it back by then, I promise. Besides: you can pick up more shifts at work, right?”

Terri’s mouth drops open, as if to argue with him: but no words come and Will just kisses her soundly with a finger under her chin, tipping her a wink before striding away towards the bedroom, pulling off his tie, probably going to get ready for another night locked in the office with his computer. 

(Terri doesn’t know what he does in there. If it was porn she thinks she probably wouldn’t care; but when she looks up his internet history all she finds is _Broadway musicals_.)

She crosses her hands over her (only slightly rounded) stomach, gazing around the dining room. She doesn’t know how to tell Will she was hoping they could save up and get a bigger house. A proper family house, with room for the baby; maybe baby number two when the time was right.

There are tears in her eyes, and Terri snorts at her stupid sentimentality. 

Damn hormones. 

She was probably just being selfish again anyway. She’s selfish an awful lot of the time, according to Will. 

…Is it really selfish to want the best for her baby?

With Will hidden from view in the bedroom, Terri screws her face up at him, very nearly sticking out her tongue.

Well someone needs to think about it. Will would probably quicker see those Glee freaks in penthouses than their own kid living outside this one-bedroom hovel.

Terri sighs, giving in and going to fetch her chicken pot pie for one from the freezer.   

It’s a losing battle, she knows. But she wishes Will would think about it; just once. Think about  _them_. 

  
*

  
“So this is  _Chez Puckerman_ …”

Puck cringes. He can’t help it. Most everything Kurt ever says sounds like an insult. 

“Yeah. It’s not… it’s…” He flails his hands. “It’s my mom’s house, y’know…?”

“No, no, I like it,” Kurt insists: “it’s…lived in...”

Resting his weight on his left hip, Kurt casts a glance around the Puckerman's living room: his eyes drifting over the mismatched furniture, the ornaments on the mantle-piece, the piles of papers and trashy magazines and colouring-in books scattered all over the place. Puck feels a little worm of embarrassment, remembering how spotless Kurt's home is. Eventually though, the other boy’s eyes settle back on Puck's.

"So." He suggests, without preamble. "Wanna make out?"

Well. That's three words pretty much guaranteed to stop Puck worrying about the décor. 

“…Yes please.”

The words have barely left his lips before Kurt is practically  _climbing him_ : one hand caught around Puck’s belt-loop, the other curled against his neck; lips hard and hot and sure against his. Automatically, Puck’s arm wraps tight around Kurt’s waist, dragging him close, and in three steps Kurt has him pushed back into the cushions on the sofa, clambering into his lap.

Making out with another boy isn't really the same as making out with a girl, Puck realises dazedly (although truth be told he hasn’t had much experience of either). The taste's all different; the smell; the whole feel of it. It's kind of like fighting for the ball in a pile-up: both pushing, both trying to get the upper hand, both wanting the same thing. Maybe that's just Kurt. But either way, it's kind of frantic and combative and Puck finds it's really,  _really_  turning him on.

Kurt too, by the sounds of things.

“ _Mmm…_ ” Puck’s cock gets harder with every tiny sound of contentment Kurt murmurs against his lips; every graze of his fingernails against his scalp; every  movement of his firm, hot, supple body pressed tight against his. “Baby… Mmmm…”

“Fuck…” Puck forces himself to pull away, overwhelmed, holding their foreheads together for a second as he tries to get his breath back. “... _Kurt_ —” 

 “—You have to tell me how you want it…” Kurt whispers, grazing Puck’s cheek with the tip of his nose. Puck opens his eyes; finds those pretty blues gazing back at him: “I know you’ve dreamt about this…”

Kurt’s teeth catch gently at Puck’s bottom lip, and Puck pretty much  _whimpers_.

“I just…” He replies breathily, chest heaving: “…I just want to kiss you.”

Kurt looks back at him, beautiful lips quirking at the corner, before he leans in and captures Puck’s mouth again— and Puck can’t stop the broken groan that escapes him as Kurt’s cool hands slide under the back of his jeans, forcing Puck’s straining erection hard against his groin:

“…Sure you do.” 

He’s right. Puck has never felt anything like this. Not for real; not with hands that weren’t his own. Not with someone else’s body wrapped around his; hot skin and damp lips and nimble fingers tugging at his belt buckle—

“—Kurt…” Puck jerks away, forcing his hands from Kurt’s shapely ass and catching the other boy’s wrists instead, panting embarrassingly hard as Kurt stares back at him.

“What?” Even he seems a little breathless. “You’d prefer to do your own?” He pulls Puck’s belt apart, moving a hand to pop his fly open.

“No! I mean;  _no_ …”  Puck grips tighter, holding the other boy away from his crotch, and Kurt grants him an echo of the furious look he gave a couple of weeks ago when Puck manhandled him out of the library.

“No?” He repeats incredulously. “Are you  _broken_ , Puckerman? A minute ago it was ‘yes please’.” 

“I know, I just… I’m sorry… It’s just I haven’t done anything like…  _this_ … before—”

“—Kronk, I think we all knew that.” Kurt says flatly. Then he narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Puck like he’s a Sudoku puzzle: “Don’t worry, I’m a very good teacher; I’ll be gentle with you.” He cants his hips a little, and Puck has to bite back another moan as Kurt smiles angelically: “If you’d like.”

“I just…” Puck’s squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to keep talking, not letting that  _very appealing_  thought go anywhere: “…I thought we were gonna be practicing for the audition—”

“—Seriously? We’ve been dating a week and a half and you invited me round to your house to  _practice singing with_?” 

"Um, well… Yeah?” 

Stupid upward inflection. Puck forces a vaguely sheepish smile across his damp mouth, hoping it looks more endearing and less moronic than it feels.

“I mean, I’m not… complaining—”

“—No, I wouldn’t think so…” Kurt interrupts, leaning in to catch his lips again-- and almost making it before Puck has another attack of butterflies and jerks his head out of the way. 

“No.” He repeats again, and this time tries not to let his voice waver. “I’m not… I’m not ready.”

Kurt genuinely looks like he’s never heard these words before, and Puck swallows, trying to quash the sensation of his heart thudding against his jugular: 

“Can we not just… Can we not just do the singing thing?” 

For a long minute, the two boys stare at each other, and Puck thinks his face is  _on fire_ — but he clenches his jaw shut and tries not to start apologising again because (channelling Miss Pillsbury’s sex ed. classes) his feelings are just as important as his partner’s and sex is a beautiful act between two people who care deeply for each other, and besides: he really,  _really_  needs an audition song. 

Eventually, Kurt removes his hands from Puck’s jeans and presses his lips together into a tight line, one eyebrow raised slightly in that familiar expression of haughty condescension:

“Fine.” 

Gracefully, he swings his leg back over Puck’s lap, and instead twists around so he’s sitting on the seat next to him, fastidiously smoothing the creases out of his sleeves. Puck blinks. Then, after a second—where he can pretty much hear the whirr of his brain re-booting— he guiltily curls his own hands in his jeans, trying to rearrange himself without looking too much like a virgin. His resolute attitude deflates a bit. He wonders if he’s really blown it. If trying to be the squeaky clean, new start boyfriend is really worth Kurt looking at him like that. 

He glances over. Kurt doesn’t meet his eyes, pushing his bangs back into place; but he mutters:

“Some boyfriend…” 

Puck feels his stomach sink. 

“Um… Well I’ll, uh, get my guitar…” He says awkwardly. 

 

*

  
Rachel daintily straightens her skirt out, flattening the creases with the palms of her hands; tugging her socks back up to her knees. She frees her cherry-cola flavour Lip Smackers from her bedside drawer and liberally re-applies, smiling vaguely at the muffled sounds of Finn scrubbing at his pants in the bathroom. Goodness, he’s going to need some training. There’s only so much the memory of a crumpled mailman and a shrieking mother can do when ranged against the not un-substantial charms of Rachel Berry and an H&M push-up bra. 

It is nice to be with someone who has a little bit of muscle though, she has to admit. And who actually seems interested in kissing her rather than just rutting jerkily against her thigh. And who has hair that’s not an afro.

_Ugh; Jacob._

Banishing all thoughts of her previous attaché, Rachel flips open the lid of her laptop, navigating automatically to her Myspace page (her homepage, of course. And the top of her favourites list. Why yes: Rachel Berry is Rachel Berry’s favourite. Who else could give such meaningful affirmation?). Serenely, she scrolls through the comments on her last video (a tremulous and heartfelt rendition of Les Mis’ ‘I Saw Him Once’) mostly a barrage of capslock and ecstatic key-bashing.  _Gosh_ , her fans are becoming rabid—

She’s shaken from her haze of self-appreciation by the sound of electronic gunfire, and it takes her a worrisome second to realise that the noise is actually Finn’s text alert. He’d taken his cell out of his pocket when they’d started making-out, Rachel getting freaked by Finn having two solid, stubby things in his pants.    

Curious, she leans across, flicking the screen on.

It’s a message from QUINN FABRAY.

Expression instantly creasing into a scowl, Rachel taps the message open, keeping one ear out for the sound of Finn returning from the bathroom:

_So glad! I didn’t know who else 2 ask. U guys seem to be having such a gd time + ur right—I do love singing xx_

She’s put kisses on the end! KISSES!

Rachel scrolls back up through the conversation, realising with a burning feeling in her chest that Finn and that peroxided Cheeri-ho have been texting backwards and forwards all evening, making arrangements, when Finn had blatantly told her just that afternoon that he couldn’t make Wednesday night because he had  _Celibacy Club_ … 

Caught up in her outrage, Rachel doesn’t hear the toilet flush and the creak of the floorboards as Finn pads awkwardly back into her bedroom. 

“…Hey, I think I might’ve used up all the toilet-paper… Is that my cell—?”

Rachel glowers at her lumbering oaf of a boyfriend, leaping nimbly to her feet and storming across to thrust the offending text message straight in his face:

“Quinn Fabray is  _auditioning for Glee Club???!!_ ” 

 

*

  
When he gets back from his bedroom, Puck half expects Kurt to be gone: given up on him, away to find a better offer. But he isn’t. He’s still there, sitting on the end seat of Puck’s sofa, feet curled up under him and concentrating, flinty-eyes, on his iPhone. Puck wonders who he’s texting, who he’s complaining to (probably Mercedes) but he forces himself to take the other seat anyway, resting his guitar against the arm and placing three bags of Doritos and a litre of Diet Coke between them on the floor like a peace-offering. 

“So, um… I figured I could go through my iPod and show you some of the stuff I was thinking about for the audition—”

Kurt looks at him blankly for a moment; holds out his hand:

“Give it here loser.” 

Chastised, Puck does as he asks, and after about a minute of steely silence, Kurt grudgingly begins to explain that what Puck likes isn’t necessarily what he’s good at singing, or acceptable for a glee club audition.

“It needs to be something you’re comfortable with.” He says as he scrolls through Puck’s music collection. “You wanna be up there and singing your heart out, not freaking out about fancy chord changes. Play to your strengths.”

Puck feels his stomach tighten.

“I don’t know if I really have any.”

"Well we’ll make some up for you, ok? Jeez Puckerman, if you go in with that attitude Schue’ll laugh you off the stage.” He scrolls for a few more seconds in silence, before a tiny light seems to glint in his eyes. “Ah, now here’s an easy one. Sing for me.”

He hits play on the iPod, and the first notes of ‘With Me’ float from the speakers.

Instantly, Puck snatches the iPod back and hits pause.

“Uh, I think everyone’s heard enough of that one, don’t you?” He says, grimacing once more. Kurt just cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“So sue me.” He deadpans. “I don’t get serenaded very often.” 

Puck looks at him. He almost sounds serious, and Puck doesn’t know what to say. But then he gathers all his nerves and leans across and kisses his boyfriend— just a peck really, nothing like before— short but sweet, on the lips. 

When he pulls away again Kurt blinks at him for a minute, lips damp and shiny from Puck’s; then he moves his hand and tries to grab the iPod back. Puck dodges out of his way:

“No, hey, can I try one?”

“Does it have a thrashing drum solo?”

“No. It’s…” Puck scrolls through the song list; hits the one he wants “…Don’t laugh ok?”

Kurt rolls his eyes, making a cross over his heart with his finger; but he pulls his legs up to his chest, settling back to listen.

Puck can see his smile quirk as soon as the intro starts, ‘cos it’s pretty famous. But after that he stops looking, ‘cos he really wants to try and do this well and Kurt is fucking off-putting whether he tries to be or not. 

_“When it began, I can’t begin to know this… but I know it’s growin’ strong…_ ”

He closes his eyes, forgetting about everything except the beat of the bass drum. He tries not to sing along with the vocals, just sing it in his own time, his own voice, holding the notes where he wants, dropping them where he doesn’t. He knows shit about music, but he knows this song inside out and he knows how he sings it best. It’s a classic case of musical child-abuse, the fact that his mom played this cassette tape for hours in the car when he was a kid. But he grew to love it eventually, and it still makes his mom smile when she hears him singing it—in touch with his Jewish roots and all that. And his mom smiling doesn’t exactly happen all that often. 

So it’s with that thought in his head Puck swings into the chorus, swaying a bit, and he grins even more when he hears Kurt chipping in with the bah-bah-bah echo part. He doesn’t think he can manage another verse because he must look like a total dork already, but he finishes the chorus with a long, steady note and a bit of flourish and only opens his eyes again when he hears Kurt giving him a not-entirely-sarcastic round of applause. 

“Wow-ee Puckerman.” He whistles. “There might be some talent in those prehistoric vocal chords yet. I would never have pegged you for a Neil Diamond man.”

He’s smiling but (Puck notices) it’s not quite reaching his eyes. Not that he’s caught Kurt smiling all that often to really recognise the difference. It makes him panic just a tiny bit. 

“Was it really ok?” he asks, fiddling with the iPod again. “I mean, I’ve never sung in front of people before. I never took music…”

“Well you should have.” Kurt tells him. He cocks his head a bit. “That’d be perfect for your audition song. And I assume since you lugged it out here you know the guitar part— that’s a point in your favour. We don’t have anyone who plays acoustic.”

Obligingly, Puck sings it again, this time with his guitar as accompaniment. Kurt watches him, tapping along with his fingers on his knee, and Puck tries not to notice because his concentration is kind of intimidating and sexy at the same time. He throws out some tit-bits of criticism and Puck tries again, and they go over it and over it for the next two hours until Puck stops feeling self-conscious altogether and the shadow disappears a little from between Kurt’s eyebrows. Puck can’t help noticing how much better he looks when he’s not scowling— and feeling a bit warm and fuzzy at the idea it might have been his singing that helped make that happen. Maybe tonight won’t be a total fail after all.    

When his mom and Sarah come home (an event which Puck had sort of forgotten about, to be honest) Puck explains in a mumble that he’s got an audition for glee club tomorrow and that Kurt’s helping him practice, and his mom gives him that look parents get when they’re torn between applauding their child’s gung-ho attitude and warning them they’re about to fall on their asses. 

“Well, it’s always good to try new things.” she says eventually, non-commitally, and sweeps into the kitchen to dump the bags from the 7-11. Sarah just raises an eyebrow, gives Kurt a once over, then launches herself into the armchair and grabs the remote.

Not too surprisingly, Puck feels the mood kind of come crashing down around them. 

Kurt’s mouth tightens a bit at the sound of Puck’s mom muttering to herself in the kitchen; the clink of bottles. Carefully, he sets the iPod back down on the arm of the sofa.

“Well. I think that’s my cue to am-scray.” He says after a moment, and in that familiar tone that sounds like honey poured over barbed wire. Puck’s head snaps around to look at him. The scowl is threatening once again at the edges of his expression and Puck isn’t too sure why. 

“Um, yeah, maybe that’s best…” he says, taking his guitar off and shrugging a bit apologetically. He lowers his voice: “Sorry ‘bout them.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got my own rehearsing to do anyway.” 

Puck moves his knee, trying to bump it with Kurt’s in an apologetic kind of way; but Kurt just reaches over and picks his bag off the floor, climbing back to his feet and heading for the hallway. 

Puck awkwardly watches Kurt lacing up his shoes in the porch, not wanting their first real date-like thing to end so abruptly. 

“Um, so, I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Most likely.” 

Puck bites his lip.

“Thanks for, y’know, helping me and stuff. I kinda suck at music—”

“—Noah, if you keep up with that attitude I’m gonna kiss you right here in front of your family and then fuck off so you can spend the rest of the night incompetently trying to explain yourself.” 

Oh.

“…I hadn’t… expected them back so soon.” Puck says quietly. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna tell them, I just…”

“It’s fine. I understand.” Kurt interrupts, hooking his bag over his shoulder again and fishing his car keys out his jacket pocket. 

“I really… I had a really nice time tonight.” Puck tries again, a bit lamely. Kurt just looks at him.

“See you tomorrow.” He says. Then his hand curls around Puck’s belt and tugs:

“You might wanna fix that.” He advises, and Puck belatedly realises he’s been sitting around for the last three hours with his belt undone.   

“Shit…” 

He watches Kurt climb into his car and drive off as he re-buckles himself, and tries not to think too much about Kurt un-buckling it in the first place as he heads back inside. 

He has a dull achy feeling in his chest as he grabs his guitar from the sofa and shouts through to his mom that he’s already eaten and he doesn’t want anything. He pauses for a second in the doorway; but he has no idea how to tell her he’s never gonna be the good little Jewish boy she wants him to be and oh, by the way, he’s dating boys now.

Fuck. He hadn’t even really thought about having  _that_  conversation. 

He slams his bedroom door closed and collapses on his bed, pushing the piles of dirty laundry aside and glad as fuck Kurt never saw this place. He stares unseeingly at his ceiling for a bit. Then he picks up his guitar again and starts strumming; strumming mindless chords until eventually they re-form into 'Sweet Caroline' and he spends the rest of the night singing for all he’s worth.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel, of course, is pretty much uniformly the first member of New Directions on the scene for early morning practice—after all, why would she pass up on the opportunity for some solo rehearsal time? But Kurt and Mercedes are never far behind and, sure enough, she finds them in their usual gossip formation beside Kurt’s locker, mercifully lacking the presence of Kurt’s pet reprobate.  
She storms over to them, pulling to a stop bang in the centre of Kurt and Mercedes’ little huddle, jamming her hands angrily on her hips:  
  
“Did you know about this?” She demands, glaring up at Kurt’s infuriatingly disinterested expression.  
  
He spares a moment to blink at her turtle-neck/necklace combo before replying:  
  
“…Know about what?”  
  
“ _Quinn Fabray_  is auditioning for New Directions!”  
  
Rachel just barely manages to keep from stamping her foot.  
  
Kurt exchanges a glance with Mercedes.  
  
“So? As is half the school, by the looks of things.” He shrugs: “It’s like a free pass to Julliard, isn’t it?”  
  
Rachel scowls at him. Clearly their tentative alliance is already a thing of the past.  
  
“ _Ugh_.” She drops her arms angrily back to her sides, turning so she can also include Mercedes in the blaze of her ire:  
  
“I don’t even know whose side you’re  _on_  anymore!”  
  
And she sweeps off, stamping as hard as she can whilst wearing ballet pumps.  
  
Mercedes whistles low under her breath:  
  
“Woah… She’s lost it hasn’t she?”  
  
Kurt purses his lips: “Not convinced she ever had it…”  
  
“So; anyways:” Mercedes turns back to her boy, leaning her shoulder against the bank of lockers: “how was he?”  
  
“…To whom are you referring?”  
  
“You. Captain Caveman. Doing the horizontal mamba.”  
  
“I don’t  _mamba_ , ‘Cedes.”  
  
“Fine. The horizontal  _jazz square_ ; whatever it is skinny white boys do when they’re naked.” Mercedes grins, fixing her purse across her body. The school is still unnervingly silent, populated only by those high-flyers hardcore enough to deal with pre-class extracurriculars: mathletes; chess club; New Directions.  
  
Mercedes glances at Kurt’s carefully neutral expression, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. She nudges his shoulder:  
  
“So what’s the dish? Does he really have a nipple ring? Cos that’s just too Nineties to be real.”  
  
Carefully, Kurt pulls his locker closed.  
  
"I don't see why you're always so interested in my sex life."  
  
Mercedes makes a spluttering noise, like he's just asked her if she approves of maiming kittens:  
  
"Babe, some days gay porn is all that gets me through first period without developing an aneurysm. So, spill: most of yesterday you had your tongue halfway down his windpipe, and today mohawk-boy's nowhere to be seen— Bossed him and lost him?"  
  
Kurt glances pointedly around the deserted hallway: "It's 7.40…"  
  
"It's  _suspect_  is all I'm saying." Mercedes clarifies, not letting him get off so easy. "I thought this one was different. I thought this was a 'relationship'." She makes bunny-ears with her fingers.  
  
Kurt's mouth tightens: "And what on earth gave you that idea?"  
  
"Well, all the serenading for one."  
  
"Sweetheart, he's not the first boy to sing me a love song."  
  
"Okay..." Mercedes concedes, clutching her books to her chest and following Kurt as he valiantly tries to escape down the hall.  
  
"But he's the first one who did it in public, right? The first one who said he loved you?"  
  
Kurt spins round. "Why are you pushing this?"  
  
"I just wanna know what's goin on." Mercedes shrugs, hoping Kurt's too wrapped up in whatever his issues are to notice the colour flushing into her cheeks. "I'm just looking out for you boo; you're not yourself today, and you're way more pretty when you aint got that scowly face on."  
  
Kurt narrows his eyes, lifting his chin like he does when he's reminding himself he's superior to everyone else in the immediate vicinity. For a long moment the two friends just look at each other. Then, something in Kurt's shoulders seems to slump.  
  
"I don't believe Fabray had the nerve to put her name down."  
  
Ok. Mercedes can work with this.  
  
She makes a considering kind of face:  
  
"Well I guess when you start saying its ok to have football players in glee club..."  
  
"... But they just don't get it, do they?" Kurt interrupts, scrunching up his nose like at the memory of a bad smell. "They don't get  
how hard we work. What it actually means; the music. The performance. Being in glee isn't just singing songs it's--"  
  
"-- a lifestyle?"  
  
"Yes!" Kurt points a finger at her. "It's being different. It's being…special. It's being…  _not pathetically flaily_  all the time."  
  
Mercedes gives him the fish eye: "Okaaay... You've just jumped universe, haven't you?"  
  
"People used to hand us whatever we wanted." Kurt barrels on, clearly oblivious. "I have Alexander McQueen silk scarves in six different colour combinations-- Six...! I didn't pay for a single one of them." He turns his head, eyes widening as he meets Mercedes' gaze. "Boys at this school used to  _buy_  my favour, Mercedes."  
  
Mercedes stares back at him, just a tiny bit unnerved by this unexpected tirade.  
  
Then, all at once, she gets it; and her heart thumps so hard and hopeful in her chest it's physically painful.  
  
"...He didn't want you, did he?"  
  
Kurt doesn't answer.  
  
But his eyebrows almost meet in the middle he's frowning so hard, and Mercedes knows she's right.  
  


*

 _Get used to those tears of despair, flabby jukeboxes_ , Sue cackles triumphantly to herself, as Ladyface and Chocolate Thunder-Thighs sweep past her towards Schue’s den of torment. She runs her finger down the scribbled column of names populating New Directions’ audition list:

  
 **Quinn Fabray  
Santana Lopez  
Brittany**  
  
The cheerleading coach grins, baring all her teeth in the way that an ancient elder of the Amazonian Witoto tribe taught her would be most intimidating to large, jungle-dwelling carnivores. Soon, the  _glee club_  will be full to bursting with her brainwashed, talentless Cheerios. Soon— drawn by the pathetic inevitability of teenage hormones, the football club will helplessly follow suit— pounding their clumsy dinosaur feet all over Schue’s precious stage. And soon, the  _glee club_  will be the physical embodiment of the hopeless joke Sue has always known it to be.  
  
And all that extra budget money will go towards the construction of the very first McKinley High Cheerios branded Seaplane.  
  
*  
  
 _Hey im soz, can't meet you 2day. Bt I bet u do gr8 n your oddition! Really sorry!_  
  
Quinn's brow wrinkles as she reads Finn's message, firstly as she tries to translate his adorable spelling, then again at the familiar weight of disappointment settling in her chest— but it's not really a surprise when she emerges from the wings of the auditorium to find Rachel Berry sitting in the middle of the stage, legs curled under her prim, plaid little skirt, perfect hair cascading over her shoulder.  
  
For a long, long minute, the two girls simply stare at each other.  
  
"Sorry Fabray-- I guess I'm not exactly who you were expecting." Rachel’s caustic, nasally voice intones, mouth twisting into a beatific little smile, as she leans languorously back on her hands.  
  
Quinn doesn't dignify the Queen Gleek with an answer, choosing instead to type out a quick reply to Finn ( _Thanks for the warning. See you at the audition x_ ) before curling her phone into her palm and letting her eyes finally meet her nemesis'.  
  
"Actually, you were exactly who I was expecting. You've got Finn wrapped around your little pinky, don't you?"  
  
Rachel's smile curves across her lips: "I just thought you might like to have someone who actually  _knows how to sing_  assist you in your singing practice." She pats the cushion next to her, as if mocking the cozy little picnic spot Quinn had set-up for Finn and herself between classes. Quinn's eyes flick to the wicker basket she'd tucked half under a cushion, and realises it's been opened, the flask and a half-drunk cup of virgin Cosmo sitting innocuously nearby.  
  
Quinn feels her face heating up, and she crosses her arms tight over her chest, forcing herself to meet Rachel's ominously neutral expression.  
  
She lifts her chin; feels her ponytail tickle the back of her neck:  
  
"You can't stop me from auditioning."  
  
Rachel's mouth twists, and now her expression is something else entirely, something far more feral:  
  
"No." She admits, climbing gracefully back her feet. She steps pointedly over the edge of the picnic blanket until she and Quinn are toe to toe, mirroring the other girl's stance with her arms over her chest. It'd be comical-- Quinn has at least three inches on the school's forcibly-elected Medusa-- but the expression on Rachel's face is almost a snarl and Quinn has to fight every well-honed survival instinct she has not to back down and flee the auditorium.  
  
"But if you  _force_  yourself to be part of New Directions, I promise I will put you through such a world of  _pain and acoustical torment_  that you'll rip your own tongue out to quit."  
  
Quinn used to think she only hated Rachel Berry from a distance; pretty much like everyone else at this school. But lately it just feels far,  _far_  more personal.  
  
Her arms are trembling. She digs her fingernails into her skin:  
  
"…Finn deserves better than you."  
  
"Again, incorrect." Rachel singsongs, tilting her head a little to the side. Quinn can't help noticing how the auditorium lights glimmer across her dark locks. "Finn deserves  _exactly_  me." She smiles, wide and dazzling, beautiful and poisonous. "So  _paws off_  Fabray."  
  
 _Oh_ , she's pushing it.  
  
Quinn narrows her eyes, trying to keep focus on the cross tucked discreetly beneath the neck of her cheerleading uniform. But instead, in her mind’s eye, she catches a glimpse of the face of a boy; a boy who should be here with her, singing the other half of her duet, sharing Cosmos with her, goofy, heart-melting smile crinkling his eyes.  
  
"What are you so scared of, Rachel?" She asks, in her best, most-condescending, moral high-ground voice. "That he's bored of you already?"  
  
For just a moment, Rachel looks entirely side-swiped:  
  
"…I don't think it's any--"  
  
"-- That he knows you're just using him because he's pretty? Because he's happy to hang off your arm and let you have the limelight all to yourself?"  
  
Quinn raises an eyebrow, hardly believing it as Rachel's show-smile crumples at the corners:  
  
"Finn and I are--"  
  
"--You don't care about him at all." Quinn barrels on, voice quivering. "You don't  _know_  him.... You think you're the big noise this school, that boys are climbing over each other to be with you— but you've been dating two months, and Finn's already seeing other girls behind your back."  
  
Rachel's mouth works, but she can't seem to find words, and Quinn bites her lip hard to keep from crowing in triumph. She pauses just long enough to remind herself how much she might regret her next sentence:  
  
"Admit it— you’re only here because you know Finn would rather have been singing with me tonight than with you."  
  
Quinn’s tennis shoes squeak against the wood-panelled flooring as she recoils from the sudden stinging pain in her left cheekbone— but all she really feels is satisfaction as she glares through watering eyes at Rachel Berry’s big mouth hanging open in horror and her right hand still hovering in midair.  
  
*  
  
Tina’s pretty sure someone’s been pounding at the door of McKinley’s newly installed disabled bathroom for, like, the last fifteen minutes or something. But honestly? She was kinda too busy  _staving off an orgasm_  to pay it much attention.  
  
Now however— with colour starting to bleed back into her surroundings, and her thighs still stuttering jerkily with the last feeble burns of pleasure, and Artie’s teeth firmly embedded in her shoulder— Blind-Kid-Bobby’s voice comes ringing nasal and desperate from the other side of the easy-grip door handle:  
  
“ _Please_  guys! I need to pee  _really bad_!! Please!  _Artie_!”  
  
Tina buries her face in Artie’s neck, giggling silently against his skin and it’s a  _really weird feeling_  with Artie still inside her.  
  
“Artie? Please Just let me in… Y’know, I can’t even see your and Ms Cohen-Chang’s… <i>copulating</i>…"

“Sorry Bobby, it’s out of order!” Artie calls cheerily back, sending Tina into another peel of giggles.  
  
“—But--”  
  
“— _Out. Of. Order_!!” Artie repeats loudly, wrapping his arms around Tina and pulling her close while they both shake with laughter.  
  
After a few moments, they hear the lonely staccato clink of Bobby and his whitestick hurrying away in the direction to the faculty bathrooms.  
  
“Artie, that was  _mean_.” Tina scolds playfully, nuzzling her mouth once more against the white, slightly stubbly curve of her boyfriend’s neck. Artie leans his head back against the shiny bathroom wall, curling his fingers encouragingly in the back of Tina’s hair.  
  
“You love it.” He replies languorously. “Or at least, it’s hard to form any other kind of conclusion after the last half hours’ rigorous  _copulating_ —  _Dah-um_ , girl.”  
  
Tina flushes; but when Artie raises his fist beside his head, she bumps it with her own without a second thought.  
  
“Well I’d give it ten out of ten…” She agrees, grinning contentedly. She licks a prim, neat stripe along his neck: “If you keep up this level of performance you’ll start unlocking bonus features…”  
  
“Oh  _really_..?” Artie grins, gaze raking down Tina’s body, eyeing her cleavage all pert and bouncy and inviting just under his nose.  
But Tina distracts him with a kiss, reclaiming some of the intimacy lost in the more screamy moments of her orgasm, accompanying it with a tiny rock of her hips that makes Artie  _groan_.  
  
Yeah; he totally has full use of his penis.  
  
Artie’s hands roam over Tina’s back, tracing the dark trail of her hair as it cascades down the length of her spine. He knows all her ticklish spots by now, making her squirm under his hands without even trying, and Tina digs her fingernails harder into his skin, teasing him in her own way.  
  
She hasn’t admitted it out loud, but she didn’t really enjoy those bizarre couple of weeks when she and Artie had been crowned the school’s ‘It’ couple, in the wake of Rachel and Kurt’s experimental abdication. Neither of them really wanted the laser-focused scrutiny of the entire student body following their every move; Jacob publishing photos of every naughty rendezvous; the sudden outbreak of coloured hair extensions and geek-chic glasses among the freshmen. Artie wasn’t very good at staying detached in the arrogantly superior way Rachel has perfected, and the sudden pressure expanded his opinion of himself to pretty much Epic Movie proportions. They’re far better suited to this: background debauchery; private joys.  
  
Tina’s never been much of a public speaking kind of girl.  
  
“…Baby?”  
  
“Hmm?” Tina runs her fingernails back through Artie’s hair, mussing it adorably. His  _mom_  still cuts it: she loves that.  
  
“Um . Everything ok with you lately?”  
  
Tina pulls back, frowning gently:  
  
“Yeah?” She’s not sure where this has come from. “…Why?”  
  
Artie shakes his head.  
  
“Nothing. It’s just you’re feeling a bit more…” To Tina’s horror, the hand that was kneading comfortingly at her thigh travels upwards to squeeze gently at the soft flesh of her stomach. “… _puppy fat_  than normal.”  
  
Tina feels her cheeks heat up and she leans automatically out of Artie’s grasp, clutching her shirt closed.  
  
“Artie... That’s really inap-p-propriate.”  
  
“What?” A look flashes across Artie’s face, like he’s just noticed the bear-trap at his feet but can’t stop himself stepping in it. He raises an eyebrow, pushing his glasses nonchalantly back up his nose with his forefinger: “It’s only the truth baby girl. You know I love you anyways. Just…” He shrugs. “Maybe stop having sleepovers with Mercedes and her Twizzlers stash?”  
  
Tina stares, fingernails biting painfully into her palm through the black cotton of her top. All at once she feels grimy and sluttish, having sex with her boyfriend on the floor of McKinley High’s only disabled bathroom. Her knees are cold, sticking against the cool, disinfected tiling.  
  
“Baby, come on, don’t do the sad face, you know you’ll break my heart.” Artie chides, cocking his head to catch her eye again.

  
“If my weight bothers you so much I’m pretty sure you could have found another post-chem booty call.” Tina replies frostily, letting her hair slip in front of her face.  
  
Artie frowns.  
  
“Tee... C’mon, you know you’re my woman.” He prises Tina’s fingers away from her shirt, pressing her knuckles to his lips, even as his eyes drift directly back to her re-exposed cleavage. “I just  _noticed_ , right? Hard not to when you’re bouncing up and down on me like a space-hopper. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. You’re just, y’know, normally so… healthy. I figured something must be up, if you’re piling on the extra cookies, you get what I mean?”  
  
Tina listens, strangely numb as she watches Artie’s lips moving, still swollen from kissing and oddly pink from her own lip-gloss. She never thought he would mind if she put on a little weight. He’s always liked her curves; calls her a  _real woman_ , the opposite of all those androgynous, air-headed, stick-insect supermodels.  
  
Besides, it’s not like she’s put on loads; a couple of pounds at the most. It hasn’t affected her costumes, or her dancing. It’s normal, she’s a growing girl. Better for cuddling, right?  
  
Maybe not.  
  
Something dark begins to bloom in the pit of Tina’s  ~~disgustingly flabby~~  tomach, even as Artie tugs her head in for a kiss that’s sweet and gentle enough she knows it’s meant as an apology. Reflexively, Tina kisses him back; but all she really wants to do is pull her panties back on and find a nice, secluded, females-only bathroom where she can stick her fingers down the back of her throat and commence throwing her guts up.  
  
Although— as that growing nausea in her stomach seems to be trying to tell her— she’s beginning to be pretty sure that won’t actually  _solve anything_.  
  
*  
  
Kurt makes sure to keep his pace even as he strides through the near-silent corridors towards the food tech block, where Rachel summoned him. He may not have much of a choice regarding following her instructions-- but he  _can_  choose to act disinterested as hell while carrying them out.  
  
He watches the hall lights glinting off the white patent of his Docs as he walks; little rhythmic flashes, oddly compelling.  
  
This time yesterday he'd snuck up on Noah, reeling him in with the tiniest of touches; tiniest of smiles. God, he's always so  _easy_. A big, slavvering mohawked Labrador.  
  
Today...  
  
...Well, it's hard to sneak up on anyone whilst wearing Doc Martens.  
  
Kurt knows he's at the right classroom before he even opens the door: he can hear the bridge of Rihanna’s  _Take a Bow_  floating down the hallway.  
  
Sure enough, Rachel's perched casually on the desk in front of the blackboard, fist clutched tight over her heart as she works up to the angst-tastic final chorus. She notices Kurt's entrance and grants him a vague little finger wave.  
  
Kurt gives the classroom a cursory glance as he waits for her to finish. He thought he recognised it; and the pile of Bibles and half-inflated balloons in the corner just confirms it.  
  
He points to the floor as Rach's final note flutters around them:  
  
"Isn't this supposed to be Celibacy Club?"  
  
Rachel fights to get her breath back, smiling tightly:  
  
"I disbanded it." She reaches down to her side, lifting a silver thermos and a plastic cup from the desk and offering them in Kurt's  
general direction.  
  
"Cosmo?"  
  
Kurt's mouth makes a little 'o'. To be honest, he hadn't expected Rachel to be so considerate. It isn’t like her. Clearly he isn't the only one who's been visiting the top end of the blood pressure scale today.  
  
Taking the cup, he holds up a warning hand to stop Rachel pouring, and takes a sip, promptly screwing his face up in dismay:  
  
"And where's the  _Cosmo_  in this Cosmo?"  
  
"It's a virgin." Rachel informs him, topping up her own cup to the brim. "Much like our benefactor, Miss Quinn Fabray." She sets the flask back down, and takes a preparatory gulp before leaning back to fix Kurt in her dark, intense gaze. For the first time, Kurt notices the slightly extra-crazy glint she only usually gets around the third week of every month, and sometimes during the finals of American Idol.  
  
"Now." Rachel begins measuredly, crossing her legs delicately at the knee. "I called this private session in its dryly ironic location so that we can discuss some matters that other members of New Directions might not be so... sympathetic, towards."  
  
"Rach," Kurt interrupts, sighing "I really have very little patience for your dramatics today."  
  
Rachel raises her eyebrows.  
  
"Why? Are you anxious to get back to your boyfriend?"  
  
Kurt grins at her, entirely without humour. Man, she is a bitch sometimes. And for your information, he certainly isn't— he has no idea what Puckerman's up to this evening, and in all honesty, he doesn't even care.  
  
Rach begins again.  
  
"It seems in the last few days some elements of our plan have begun to go dreadfully awry."  
  
Carefully, Kurt pulls himself up beside her on the desk.  
  
"... Keep talking."  
  
Rachel nods, leaning back on her hands as she explains.  
  
"'Don't Stop Believing' is going to be our ruin." She pronounces. "Glee Club  _isn't_  inclusive: not just anyone has what it takes to be a stage superstar— not in the big bad world— and these farcical open auditions, coupled with this shiny new feelgood anthem Mr Schue is intent on pushing, is destroying every inch of our hard fought-for mystique, just as I said it would."  
  
Kurt frowns, cup pressed against his lips: "That's the  _opposite_  of what you said."  
  
"Nevertheless;" Rach waves a hand "I've had a Virgin Cosmo flavoured wake-up call, and it's time for me-- that is, you and I--" she corrects, gesturing between them, spilling a bit on the desk-top "to reclaim New Directions' influence over this school, before the whole place descends into some kind of multi-cultural rainbow coloured Disney ensemble number."  
  
She scrunches up her nose, and Kurt snorts at her sudden and painfully-transparent lack of self-esteem.  
  
"Do you honestly think you're going to lose Finn to the spindly Wonder bread arms of Quinn Fabray?"  
  
"Well you lost Puckerman to  _Neil Diamond_." Rach snaps back, and Kurt fights to keep his glare steady, reminding himself for oh-the-millionth-time  _never_  to confide in Mercedes Jones.  
  
Rachel takes a deep breath:  
  
"We need to remind the school--"  
  
"--You mean Finn--"  
  
Rachel slams her palm down on the table, and Kurt doesn't quite manage to keep from jumping:  
  
"Yes ok, I mean Finn!" she grates out, tears springing into her eyes. "But I have worked  _too hard_  to bring him into my arms, to make this partnership socially viable, and I will  _not_  be embarrassed by Quinn Fabray's blancmange-coloured personality and mediocre singing voice stalking my boyfriend's every movement within  _my_  Glee Club!"  
  
She scowls murderously, and Kurt lifts his hands in speedy surrender, taking another resigned gulp of his Cosmo. From the corner of his eyes he watches Rachel lapse automatically into some focusing exercises, breathing soothingly through her nose, fingertips pointing into her chest.  
  
 _Geez. And they call him a drama queen_.  
  
"...We need to remind the school why they worship us." She begins again after a minute, voice quieter now, eyes un-focusing a little as she stares past the plastic crucifix taped hastily to the wall and on broodingly into the middle-distance. "Why they made you and I Queen and Queen of this  _tirelessly disappointing_  student body in the first place. What New Directions' can give them that no other group can."  
  
Kurt watches her, trying and failing to fight back his bite of cynicism as he pictures Lillian Adler's hopeful hippie slogan branded across New Directions' last competitive trophy.  
  
"Joy?" He suggests unhappily.  
  
"No."  
  
Rachel's head snaps around to face his, eyes glinting, cheeks flushed:  
  
" _Sex_."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Despite everything, Puck can’t help breathing a sigh of relief as he shoves his way past the kids on the bleachers to go sit with the rest of the jocks crammed into the end of the back row. Every time he’s with Kurt and the rest of New Directions he scrabbles to peel his letterman off as fast as possible, ‘cos he knows how much the other boy despises it— but he’s way too used to shrugging into it and keeping his head down to really be comfortable roaming the halls with just a tee and his biceps on show.

Sometimes, being ‘special’ really kinda sucks.

He gets a couple of looks, but when he parks himself next to Matt, the wide receiver just gives him a nod of greeting and wordlessly offers him a stick of gum, and Puck takes that to mean at least not everyone in his old crowd think he’s a _total_ glee freak.

“Woah, Fabray.” Puck’s eyebrows disappear up into what would’ve been his hairline as Quinn scoots up next to him, carefully fixing her cheerleading skirt around her thighs. “Someone drop you from the top of the pyramid?”

“Shouldn’t you be backstage lacing up your boyfriend’s corset?” Santana interjects bitchily, and Puck makes a face at her:

“Oh hey San, what’s that? Uh, oh; oh look…” He reaches across, pretending to hook something out from behind her ear, and— _bam_ —proudly displays his middle finger.

“Oh you’re so fucking clever.” San returns, flipping him off right back, as Quinn just rolls her eyes, prodding gingerly at the swollen skin around her cheekbone:

“Do you two mind not acting like _total_ children? We’re supposed to be displaying some decorum here.”

Clearly Quinn hasn’t been totally oblivious to all the rumours that’ve been flying around the corridors since someone (read: Jacob Ben Israel) broke the news of the epic Faberry Smackdown via Twitter yesterday afternoon. The idea of Rachel Berry initiating physical violence is so far out of Puck’s comprehension he doesn’t have the brainpower to actually deal with it; but then, he’s somehow _dating Kurt Hummel_ , so he guesses anything is possible.

“Y’know, I can’t actually imagine Rachel pounding on someone.” Puck admits, resting his elbows on his knees and squeezing up tighter as kids continue filling the bleachers. “Was there like some big dramatic _Phantom of the Opera_ shit on in the background?”

“No musical number.” Quinn shakes her head, ponytail whipping around her face. “ _Honestly_ , I’m surprised it doesn’t need stitches.”

She smiles vaguely into the distance, looking way too smug for an uptight nerd with a giant purple bruise blossoming over one side of her face. “I guess it only goes to prove how tenuous the Glee Club’s hold over this school is. Just the _sniff_ of someone from a lower social stratum invading their precious singing group and Queen Berry starts ordering dismemberments.”

Puck just looks at her. He wonders about Quinn sometimes. Mostly she’s a straight-A, Jesus-loving, Western-Ohio poster-child; but every once in a while her brain seems to run fucking _backwards_. She didn’t get that batshit, bunny-boiler Cheeri-ho label for nothing.

“—Silence children, Silence.”

It’s Figgins’ standard request for the beginning of every student gathering. He doesn’t pay attention the fact that the gym’s pretty much already _totally silent_. New Directions command that kind of attention.

All at once, Puck’s stomach seems to flip over like a well-done pancake— _fuck_ , this is it: the moment; _the_ moment: Finn Hudson’s Glee Club debut. The one performance that’s gonna change everything.

Puck crosses his arms tight over his chest, forcing himself to sit a little straighter. Beside him, he can see Quinn twisting her fingers over and over again in her lap, until Santana grabs hold of them and clamps her hands to her knees.

As Figgins’ voice drones through the school notices, Puck finds himself checking out, eyes focusing instead on a spot about four metres behind his Principal; the thin black line where the dramatic red theatre curtains meet in the middle, masking the new look New Directions from the talentless masses. He imagines what goes on back there five minutes before a performance: going over dance steps (Finn and Rachel probably practicing that spin thing—Finn _totally_ has issues with moving in three dimensions at once); re-tying shoelaces; Kurt double-checking his hair… Probably fixing all the girls’ make-up.

Puck allows himself a shaky little smile.

“…for anyone soiling school grounds. We’re not going to have a repeat of last time. Now we have a treat for you guys today— Mr Schuester?”

Puck drags himself back to the here and now, watching Schuester saunter across the gym to the microphone, tipping a wink to Miss Pillsbury as he goes. Puck’s not the only one who notices Miss P just glares at him in return, and a vague draught of giggles skitters through the student body.

Schue just narrows his eyes for a moment, glowering mulishly until everyone sobers up again.

“So;” He begins, and Puck notices that same steely resolve in his eyes that was there when he decided ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ was worth the risk. “When I went to school here, Glee Club ruled this place— with an iron fist. We deserved fame, and we had it. We deserved power, and we had it, and the Glee Club at McKinley High has _always_ had it; a select few proving that even in a grimy, rusty, backward little town like Lima, Ohio, the arts can make a difference.”

Puck and Quinn chance a glance at each other. This would all be totally more convincing if Mr Schue wasn’t trying to maim Coach Sylvester with eye-lasers.

“But now, as you all know, New Directions is gearing up for a brand new competitive season. The cull is over;” Schue pronounces “Glee club needs new blood.”

He pauses for a moment, letting the word ‘blood’ echo eerily around the gymnasium.

“Now, I could stand here for another half hour and tell you all about how great glee is— but to be honest I don’t think most of you in here have the imagination to able to grasp how _essential Glee Club is to the continuing development of our school community_.” He glowers accusingly around at the wide-eyed student body. “So I think I’m gonna let some of your vastly superior contemporaries _show_ you instead…”

With just a hint of mocking Schue graciously bows out of the way, as the theatre curtains slide back and the overheads slam on, illuminating the six figures posed dramatically in the centre of the stage.

Puck just barely has time to recognise Rachel bending over, tiny skirt riding dangerously high; Mercedes leaning languorously against Artie’s shoulder; Tina with her hips cocked, studded belt curled around her waist; Kurt—his Kurt— down on one knee, with lips glossy and sultry eyes fixed on the floor, the picture of subservience; and Finn, hands gripping tight to Rachel’s waist, towering over all of them and looking _mortified_ , before the music blasts and the sextet of gleeks shimmy into life:

_"Get up on this!"_

Oh no. Puck feels his jaw hit the gummy, wood-panelled floor. Oh no they _didn_ ’.

_"Baby baby, ooh baby baby…_   
_Ooh baby baby, b-baby baby_   
_Get up on this!"_

Puck knows this song. He knows it from, like, MTV‘s _Worst of the Eighties_ , with some female rap trio named after condiments prancing about in acid wash and high-tops.

And _shit_ : Finn’s right there in the middle of it.

_"Now wait a minute y’all…"_

Artie sounds way too much like some gangsta pimp daddy as he rolls to the centre of the stage, Tina and Mercedes’ asses bobbing around beside his head.

_"This dance ain’t for errrybody; only the seeexxxy people…"_

Puck squirms in his seat, trying to get a better view. He can see Rachel grinding all up against Finn’s crotch, not even a tiny bit subtle, marking her territory like some scantily-clad polecat; but Kurt’s _behind_ him, eyes dark with eyeliner, hips undulating, and Puck is not stupid enough to miss the connotation.

 _"So all you fly muthas get on out there and dance—dance I say!_ Holla!"

On Artie’s command, Tina, Rachel and Mercedes stalk to the front of the stage, hands smacking across their thighs and Puck can feel the collective intake of breath from the two rows of football players behind him.

This is _so_ not ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.

Almost scared to look, Puck’s eyes jump to Mr Schuester. The choir director’s re-taken his seat in the front row and has his fingers clamped over his mouth—he looks absolutely fucking _furious_.

The gym reverberates with the shiver of heavy-breathing, and Puck’s head snaps back to see Kurt and Mercedes all intertwined, thrusting into each other’s hips:

_"Push it good! Oww! Push it; push it reaaal good…"_

Puck bites down hard on his lip, glowering at the stage as his brain flashes vivid, colour-bleed memories at him: Kurt clambering into his lap; Kurt’s lips bruisingly hard against his own; Kurt pulling his belt out of his jeans, hand so close to being inside his pants; closing around his dick…

_"Yo yo baby-pop, yeah you come here gimme a kiss!"_

\--Oh god, Finn’s trying to _rap_.

Puck stares, horrified, as beside him Quinn claps her hands over her mouth to keep from gasping.

_"Better make it fast, or else I’m gonna get pissed!"_

Stumbling through his dance steps, Finn gets passed dizzyingly quickly along the expectant line of glee girls, each one of them raking their fingernails over his body and _fuck_ ; that’s more hands Finn’s had on him in twenty seconds than Puck’s had in his entire lifetime.

Eventually, the gangly jock spins into Kurt, who pouts his lips and holds his hand up for a congratulatory high-five. Finn slaps their palms together, looking way too relieved; then instantly _horrified_ as Kurt swings his hand down on the re-bound and smacks him on the ass.

Puck starts like someone just smacked _him_ : what the _actual_ fuck?

But it’s all too obvious. As Finn and Artie hiss _push it, owww! Push it reeeaal good_ encouragingly into their microphones, Rachel keeps her eyes fixed on Finn’s bumbling form, hands skimming along her bare thighs, and Kurt— _Puck’s_ Kurt—makes the very most of his sinfully tight jeans, expression in orgasm heaven as he works his hips, all for Finn’s benefit.

And all Finn can do is flail awkwardly in the middle of the stage, the butt of this pseudo-sexy, synthesised _fuck-you_ of a musical number.

And then—oh god—Kurt’s on his knees again. And Puck can’t help but stare, blood pounding in his ears, as his boyfriend turns his full come-hither gaze on Mercedes, crawling across the floor to her feet. He twists his body against the dusty floorboards and, somehow, the next second, he has his face dangerously close to being buried in his friend’s tits.

Puck looks down as he feels someone’s fingers tap against his thigh. He finds Santana grinning wolfishly back at him, eyes flicking to the stage:

“You shoulda laced him up a bit tighter.” She mouths.

Puck can’t even answer her; he just gapes at his boyfriend, now grinding his hips into Tina’s ass.

_"Ahhhhh, push it!!!"_

With one easy hop, the gleeks are pressed hard up against each other, crotch to ass to crotch to ass, in one long, panting line of sweat and hormones and _Finn_ — trembling and trying not to touch _anyone_ and looking like he wants the ground to swallow him alive.

Puck stares. He just _stares_ , and watches Kurt’s dark-rimmed eyes slide over the dumbstruck audience before dancing back to Finn’s blushing cheeks and making their way slowly down the line of his broad, heaving chest.

He feels like his lungs have collapsed. Beside him, Quinn’s eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, face incredibly pale and making the bruise on her cheek stand out like a paint splatter.

Around the two of them, the rest of the school explodes in applause.

*

“Ok, you’re totally not meant to be back here.” Mercedes reminds Puck, critiquing his sweaty form under metallic blue eyelids as she stands guard-dog in the doorway of the choir-room.

Puck is really starting to wonder what the hell Mercedes Jones’ problem is.

He tries again:

“Y’know, I don’t actually care, I just need to talk to Kur—”

“—Speaking.” As if on cue, Kurt appears behind his friend’s shoulder, rubbing a towel across the back of his neck, post-performance sweat still glimmering at his hairline. He grins as his eyes alight on Puck’s: “Well, what can I do for _you_ , hot stuff?”

Puck knows that look on Kurt’s face way too well; the way his mouth dimples at the corner, how his eyelids flutter to half-mast… But Puck is _so_ not having this conversation with the whole gaggle of glee girls listening in— so he just stares until that appetizing curl of Kurt's mouth tightens and he touches his fingers briefly to Mercedes' shoulder:

“…Would you give Noah and I a moment alone, ‘Cedes?”

“ _Ugh_.” Mercedes glowers between them; but obligingly she sashays off, pulling her hair back into a lazy ponytail.

Puck steps out again into the corridor, and Kurt follows, drawing the choir room door closed behind them.

“Well spit it out then.” He suggests, after a quick glance to check they haven’t drawn an audience. He waves a hand: “Your nostrils are flaring; it’s upsetting the whole symmetry of your face—”

"—What the _hell_ was that?” Puck interrupts, trying very hard not to notice how hot his boyfriend looks with the eyeliner still smudging a dangerous shadow at the corner of his big pretty eyes. “You were meant to be doing ‘Don’t Stop’."

“Hmm, yeah.” Kurt smiles tightly, no teeth: “It didn’t work out.”

Puck scrunches his hands into fists, trying to abort the impending flailing:

“But what about auditions? What about…” He can’t find the words. “…You just looked like—like _sluts_ up there.”

Kurt flicks his hair out of his eyes, smile way more genuine this time:

“Did you enjoy it?”

Puck just stares. Eventually, Kurt drops his arms back to his sides, amusement sliding out of his eyes.

“Ok; thing is Muscles, inclusiveness is a lovely idea.” He explains smoothly. “Entirely lovely. But we’re _teenagers_. The rest of New Directions and I had a discussion and we realised: the only thing this student body _really_ wants to be included in is a big, sexy orgy.”

Again, Puck’s vocabulary fails him. It’s not all that unusual; but Puck really wishes he could come up with some smart sentences to combat Kurt’s calm, level-headed words that make absolutely _no fucking sense_.

All he can do is hold the other boy’s gaze, an odd cocktail of emotions slow-burning in his stomach, and hate the next pathetic words that slip out from between his lips:

"…You didn't have to be all over Finn."

Puck feels like he’s about to throw up, but Kurt's expression barely shifts.

"Maybe I was feeling under-appreciated." The other boy suggests after a moment, in a voice as light and sickly-sweet as candyfloss. Casually, he pops the top button on his shirt and the sudden sliver of pale exposed, unmarked throat is all Puck can concentrate on.

“What, because I wouldn’t have sex with you?” He retorts, cheeks flushing hot at the memory; at admitting it out loud in the middle of the corridor. “On our first date? _On my mom’s couch_?”

“Oh it wasn’t our _first date_ ,” Kurt throws back, nose scrunching up like it does when he’s unhappy with someone’s choice of footwear “it was our, like, _fifth_ date; and you’ve been pining after me for _two years_ Puckerman— I finally give you full access rights and you’d rather _practice your chord changes_? What are you, some mohawked Jewish _eunuch_ or something?”

Puck’s mouth works frantically, and he slams a hand back against the wall when the words won’t come:

“I just, I just wanted--”

“—Or maybe you’re just scared of telling your mommy you’re screwing boys now?” Kurt snaps, and flutters his fingers in the air: “Or y’know _not_ screwing boys, whatever—”

“—I’m not…”

Puck stops; suddenly realising how hard his own fingernails are cutting into his palms. He lets another breath escape shakily between his teeth:

“…I’m not _scared_.”

Kurt holds his gaze, letting those words hang in the air between them. His mouth is a thin line and his eyes look startlingly blue and Puck suddenly remembers standing huddled in the boys’ bathroom with his guitar still slung over his shoulder and Kurt’s fingernails curled tight round the ceramic of the sink.

Uselessly, Puck tries to form some retort, but once again, he doesn’t manage. All he can think of is having Kurt’s knees wrapped tight around his waist, and strumming ‘Sweet Caroline’ un-hearingly into the ceiling of his bedroom.

When Kurt reaches through the prickling silence—slowly, with an odd, clouded expression on his face—and takes Puck’s hands in his own, Puck lets him. He doesn’t even try to find the will to pull away. Just allows the other boy to draw their bodies back close, tugging on Puck’s limp palms until they settle around Kurt’s own supple, denim-clad hips.

On every inhale, Puck’s chest presses against Kurt’s, and those breaths become sharper and sharper as Kurt leans in, pressing his cheek against the stubbly line of Puck's jaw, delicate fingers tracing the back of Puck's palms as he keeps the agonising half-inch distance between their bodies that Puck's pride refuses to let him close.

 _Pride_? Since when did he have _pride_?

Gently (ever so gently), Kurt's lips close around Puck's earlobe; and Puck groans like he's ran his tongue along the entire length of his dick.

It’s enough.

Violently, Puck wrenches his hands out of the other boy’s grip, curling them tight in Kurt’s belt instead and pushing him back until his spine hits the wall and their mouths crash together, Puck grinding up against him until they’re both trembling and breathless, and instantly hating himself when Kurt digs his hands in and shoves Puck away, giving him just one last, vaguely pitying look before he stalks off to get changed.

*

_There she is._

Rachel Berry turns to meet him with an indulgent smile glossed across her face, hair still cascading over her shoulders in those ridiculous schoolgirl ponytails:

“Mr Shuester I—”

But Will just pulls to a stop two inches in front of her and jabs a finger in her face:

“Do you understand what you did today?” He demands, wishing bitterly he hadn’t trained her to have such a resilient show face. “You _lied_ to me. And you ruined our chances—Figgins already has your ass on the line after Quinn Fabray supposedly _walked into a locker door_ … Why not just go the whole hog and start setting fires in the locker room, huh? Or putting laxatives in the Cheerios’ master-cleanse? Don’t you realise how little rep New Directions are clinging to right now?”

“But Mr Schuester, they _loved_ it.” Rachel reminds him, eyes big and beseeching like freakin’ Hanukkah Barbie. Will gets the feeling she’s been rehearsing it for a couple of days now. “You know as well as I do, _sex sells_. The rest of the school will be pounding down the door to join us now.”

Will narrows his eyes, and Rachel lifts her chin. He’s not too sure what she’s being defiant about— but she’s definitely been working on the facial expression.

Will takes a step closer: stares her down.

“I don’t know what you’re up to Rachel.” He admits, forcing his voice into spine-chilling evenness. “But take this as a warning: if whatever it is has cost us the Glee Club—you’ll be blacklisted for every performing arts course here to Pasadena.”

Will doesn’t stick around to watch Rachel’s reaction, too preoccupied with his dramatic storm-out; but by the sudden crumpling noise behind him, he’s pretty sure she falls away in a dead faint.

Or something like that.

He really shouldn’t feel this good about bullying students.

*

Emma perches on the arm on Figgins’ chair, balancing her forehead against her fingers. She has a tension headache like you wouldn’t _believe_.

It’s been almost six minutes now that the little emergency gaggle of staff members have spent sitting in disbelieving silence. Emma wonders if the others all have the same image of Rachel Berry climbing Finn Hudson like a redwood tree on vomit-inducing repeat in their brain.

“…Let me be one to break the silence.” Sue suggests after a moment; Emma peeks through her fingers to see if the cheerleading coach’s face is expressing anywhere near as much unbridled joy as her voice is.

Sue’s eyes are gleaming with triumph, even as she smacks one damning hand against the top of Figgins’ desk:

“That was the most offensive thing I’ve seen in twenty years of teaching.” She pronounces. “And that includes an elementary school production of _Hair_.”

“We’ve received angry emails from a number of concerned parents;” Figgins concurs, as Emma’s brain is further accosted by the image of tiny hairy hippy children wailing around Sue Sylvester’s ankles “many of whom thought their children were going to hear a Special Olympian talk about overcoming adversity.”

On the other side of the desk, Will Schuester’s forehead crinkles beneath his freakishly bouncy little-girl curls as he tries to work out Figgins’ logic progression. Eventually, he just gives an irritated little sigh: “I really don’t know what to say—”

“—Well let me help you out then.” Sue interrupts, grinning like a python as she meets Will’s defiant gaze. “My first thought was that your students should be put into foster care. But then I pondered: who’d have such mal-adjusted, sexually abhorrent delinquents? It’s clear: you’re their director-- _you’re_ the one who should be punished. I demand your resignation from this school, as well as the disbanding of glee club.”

Figgins holds up a weary hand before Will can start throwing furniture: “Now hold on Sue.” He warns. “The issue is content. There’s no denying those kids are talented— that new boy from the football team seems to have re-energised the whole ensemble! But I never again want the school to be so intimately acquainted with the patterns on Miss Rachel Berry’s panties! And there is of course the issue that William says he was totally unaware this number was being plotted!”

“Exactly!” Sue leaps on the accusation, eyes flaring. “Will Schuester’s clearly unable to reign in the rampant hormones of his charges—”

“Unfair, Principal Figgins; the kids have been practicing ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ for over a week, there’s nothing I could have done to predict they were gonna do _this_ —”

“—Outwitted by a group of horny sixteen year-olds!—”

“—She has it in for my glee club!—”

“—Ha, that’s rich Schuester, your lead singer just disabled my head cheerleader’s _face_! How am I supposed to put her at the front of the yearbook photo now??!—”

“—Faculty, faculty, faculty!” Figgins begins chanting, like it’s a meditative chorus. “Faculty _please_!”

“—She started it!”

“—Oh _for god’s sake_ Will!” Emma bursts out, unable to take the _rabble_ any longer. She glowers daggers into Will’s sudden rabbit-eyed expression, and in the unexpected silence, he drops back into his seat like a sack of potatoes.

Even Sue looks flabbergasted.

“Well, yes.” Figgins is the first to recover, glancing appreciatively in Emma’s direction. “And that’s why Miss Pillsbury’s here. You see Will, I’m mindful that tomorrow is meant to be your first round of open auditions for the Glee Club. But in light of today’s spectacle, I thought the best way to reassure parents that their children will not be introduced into a harem would be to appoint a chaperone to oversee your audition sessions.”

Emma had almost zoned out to pleasingly quiet lilt of Figgins’ reprimand; but now her spine goes instinctively ramrod-straight: _did he say ‘chaperone’…?_

“I’m appointing Miss Pillsbury to supervise your auditions—”

“—No…” Emma whispers, suddenly light-headed with despair.

“—She’ll be present throughout the process to make sure there are no freaky-deaky shenanigans going on behind the scenes. We all want a fair show now, don’t we? Don’t we?”

Slowly, the furious clouds seem to fade from Will’s expression, as his eyes travel up Emma’s body (resting briefly on her breasts) before meeting her own. As Sue begins calling dishonour on Figgins’ family for a thousand generations, the Spanish teacher’s mouth forms into the tiniest, tiniest little grin.

If it wasn’t so desperately unhygienic, Emma would _set herself on fire_.  



	5. Chapter 5

The rest of Dr Woo’s words fade like the volume being turned down on the stereo. Terri’s brain simply stops computing, which yeah, Will would probably say is not all that unusual, but she’s  _not_  an idiot; she’s not one of those kinda slow kids from her high school class that took summer jobs at the gas station after graduation and never left. She  _knows_  it’s been a month since her last period; she _knows_  she’s put on six pounds in the last three weeks; she  _knows_  that nausea that makes her slide out of bed in the mornings and run a bath over the sound of her chucking her guts up so she doesn’t have the humiliation of Will listening in; she knows knows  _knows_  what being pregnant feels like, and now this Doctor whoever-the-hell-he-is with bored eyes and squishy sonogram gel all over his hands is telling her that her hysterical, terrified body’s been  _making it up_?  
  
Terri’s head thuds back against the padded headrest of the gynaecologist’s chair, and she stares up into the stark white fluorescent bulb smiling serenely down on her. There's a treacherous writhe in her stomach that probably has nothing to do with her apparently imaginary baby, but is more likely just pure fear.  
  
 _Will’s gonna be so mad_. She thinks hollowly.  _So mad_.  
  
She presses her lips together, fighting tears. What can she tell him? How can she tell her husband she was just  _hallucinating_  their child?  
  
Then, she feels a tiny, tiny spark of hope; and that makes her even more terrified:  
  
Maybe she can leave.  
  
Maybe now, she can leave.

  
*

  
Puck strums his fingers mechanically across the strings of his guitar; squeezes his eyes shut; listens to the reverb.  
  
He does it again.  
  
And again.  
  
And again.  
  
He long ago abandoned actually tuning the thing-- this is just giving himself something to do with his hands other than wrap them round Santana Lopez's neck and  _squeeze hard_.  
  
"Nervous?"  
  
He almost craps his pants at the soft purr of Quinn's question so close to his ear. His fingers slip, and his guitar yelps like he dropped a brick on it.  
  
"...Shit." He mutters, and re-positions his hand.  
  
He really doesn’t have the smarts to spare for Quinn Fabray right now; but she doesn't take the brush-off. He doesn't know why he's surprised: she never does.  
  
Puck watches her out the corner of his eye, shifting compulsively from foot to foot.  
  
"So, I've been meaning to ask.... Do you think your boyfriend's seriously putting the moves on Finn, or was that just one of you twos fun, psychological abuse things?"  
  
"Oh god Fabray, change the record already." Puck grates, giving up and slinging his guitar back by his side. "Finn's with  _Rachel_." He spells out for her. " _Rachel_. Not you. He's  _happy_  with her."  
  
"It's insane."  
  
"Yeah, well, does anything of the last coupla weeks make any kind of sense to you?" Puck shoots back, voice dripping sarcasm: "We're auditioning for _Glee Club_."  
  
Quinn makes a huffy little noise; but she doesn't say anything else, and Puck snorts to himself. It's not like she can deny the big fucking hot mess that's about to crash and burn right in the middle of the stage.  
  
He starts strumming again, and grins ghoulishly to himself at the feel of the steel strings slicing into his fingertips.  
  
"I didn't know you could play the guitar." Quinn offers quietly, after a long, tense minute.  
  
"Hidden depths." Puck grunts back. Then, grudgingly: "Didn't know you could sing."  
  
Quinn shrugs tinily:  
  
"...I love it."  
  
It's weirdly honest for her-- Like, Quinn's always _honest_ , in the proper church-person sense of the word; Puck's pretty sure Quinn Fabray's never even lied to get out of math. But she's never, like,  _vulnerable_. Or at least not with him.  
  
"I guess at least this way we get in whatever happens." Puck says, trying not to think about everyone sitting out there just a couple of metres beyond the curtain. Mr Schuester. Miss Pillsbury. All of New Directions, lined up in one big unforgiving row of psycho perfectionism.  
  
"As long as we get out there and sing we're good." Quinn agrees, crossing her arms. She nods strongly to herself, as if agreeing with some invisible life coach. "This is how it should be you know. No prejudices. Just talent."  
  
"Just talent, right." Puck mimics. "And, uh, faculty blackmail."  
  
Quinn quirks an eyebrow at him, corner of her mouth curling to match it. "Right."  
  
To his surprise, Puck finds himself sharing her smile. Then his insides give one great big heave and he has to fight not to puke his guts up in impending horror. He can hear the whispery babble of noise beyond the curtain start to settle down and can only guess Mr Schue's ready to start.  
  
Cold sweat begins to prickle at the back of his neck. God he hates an audience. Why the fuck is he even here? What the hell was he thinking?  
  
"You're better than they are."  
  
"What?" Puck snaps, Quinn's voice phasing in and out under the sudden pounding of blood in his ears.  
  
"You're better than they are." She repeats. "Go out there, and sing a love song to your boyfriend. Even though he's a bitch. And doesn't deserve you."  
  
"He's not a bitch." Puck mutters automatically, although all Puck’s evidence of that is a kind of MIA at the moment.  
  
"See?" A bit awkwardly, Quinn nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. "You're stupidly loyal. All that squirming in your stomach? Don't you feel like that everytime you look at him?"  
  
"I'm gonna hurl." Puck hisses through his teeth, gripping the neck of his guitar so tight he thinks he's gonna snap the thing. Kinda wishes he would, then he could get outta this.  
  
"Well, yeah, love's like that." Quinn drawls, and Puck has no idea what percentage of her is being serious. She isn't smiling anymore, and her lips have gone very pale as she presses them together; but her eyes are glinting with excitement. She turns her head to meet his gaze, and for really the first time, Puck feels she's actually looking at him.  
  
"Take all those feelings," she instructs "and get out there, and sing a love song to your nympho boyfriend."  
  
Puck glowers at her:  
  
"Stop saying stuff like--"  
  
"—Whatever; get out onstage and remind Queen Hummel that you're doing this to be with him. It's amazing how much sense things start to make when you're singing your heart out."  
  
"Noah Puckerman."  
  
Puck's breath turns to ice halfway up his throat. Schuester sounds bored as fuck already.  
  
"Go on!"  
  
Puck feels Quinn's finger poke him in the ribs and suddenly, without thinking about it, Puck finds his feet leading the rest of him out of the wings and across the stage, to stop a abruptly right in the middle of the big white circle of the spotlight.  
  
He squints, and automatically lifts a hand to shield his eyes. He can feel his fingers quivering against his forehead.  
They’re all there.  _All of them_.  
  
Puck hadn’t expected that. Kurt; yes (or, y’know, mostly yes). Rachel; of course. But he hadn’t expected the whole six of them. He didn’t think they’d _care_.  
  
The breath catches suddenly in Puck’s throat and he makes an awkward, choking wheezing noise into the mic that screeches round the whole room.  
  
 _Shit shit shit shit_  
  
Puck squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to run off the stage.  
  
"Well?" Schuester rolls the word around his tongue like he’s enjoying tormenting Puck with just that one impatient syllable.  
  
Puck opens his eyes. He can’t look at Kurt. He  _can’t_. Instead, he scans the row until he finds the one face he’s sure will be on his side. He’s not hard to find: Finn’s like some awkwardly built Jenga tower, towering head and shoulders above the rest of the row. He’s staring right back at Puck, face like a moose caught in headlights; but when their eyes meet he grins, and Puck almost manages to start breathing again.  
  
"I'm, uh,” he clears his throat “Noah Puckerman, and I'm gonna sing, um, ‘Sweet Caroline’, by Neil Diamond."  
  
His eyes find Finn again, and the other boy nods frantically, sticking two surreptitious thumbs up just out of Rachel’s eye-line.  
  
“Whenever you’re ready, Mr Puckerman.” Schuster drawls, head lolling into his hand as Miss P stares stonily ahead beside him.  
  
 _Right. Singing. Right. He can do that._  
  
Puck’s hand seems to jerk of its own accord, strumming the first chord without even thinking. He gulps; looks for Finn’s gaze again; catches it; keeps strumming.  
  
 _“Where it began, I can’t begin to knowin'…”_  
  
He opens his mouth, and the lyrics fall out easy; so familiar.  
  
 _“but then I know its growing strong…”_  
  
Now, as the song reels from his mouth, he can’t help but look for Kurt.  
  
 _“Was in the spring, and then spring became summer…”_  
  
The other boy’s gazing back at the stage: arms crossed, legs crossed; thumbnail poised between his lips the only hint to Puck that he cares about this; that his heart might be beating a little faster too.  
  
It was beating hard when Puck kissed him, that’s for sure. The first time, and every time since.  
  
Puck’s voice gets stronger, remembering Kurt’s arms around his neck; the awkward, silent seconds when their mouths had parted, but neither of them had pulled away, breathing softly against each other’s lips, feeling the warmth of each other’s skin. Some dude had barged in (probably on a dare, the whole freakin’ school had watched Kurt drag him in there) but scuttled out in terror before either of them had looked up.  
  
 _“Who’d have believed you’d come along?”_  
  
For just a second, Kurt’s eyes meet his, and Quinn’s words echo in Puck’s head.  
  
He strums harder, closing his eyes.  
  
 _“Hands; touching hands.”_  
  
Kurt’s hands around his waist; mouth against his ear, making the hair prickle all down his neck.  
  
 _“Reaching out…”_  
  
Kurt standing beside him as Finn’s explains 'Don’t Stop Believin'’; their fingers laced together as they walked to class.  
  
 _“Touchin’ me…”_  
  
Kurt’s hands under his shirt; Puck’s head dizzy from kissing.  
  
 _“Touchin’ you…”_  
  
Puck heaves in a breath, strumming hard.  
  
 _“Sweet Caroline!”_  
  
He smiles as, behind him, Quinn and the cheerios chime in with the echo. When he turns, he sees the blonde smiling tinily at him from the wings, cheeks a little pink under her war-wound.  
  
He looks back out into the auditorium, grinning at the gleeks lined up and unamused in front of him.  
  
 _“Good times never seemed so good.”_  
  
Tina’s gazing at him from behind her hair, her eyes bright. Artie’s smiling wanly, but it doesn’t seem in a bad way, and he isn’t  _laughing_. Mercedes, of course, is scowling like a bitch-- but Puck’s starting to realise Mercedes Jones has a serious grudge goin’ on and even more that he doesn’t give a shit.  
  
 _“I’ve been inclined, to believe they never would... oh-oh-ohh…”_  
  
Finn’s swaying in his seat.  
  
 _“Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good...”_  
  
Miss P looks like she wants him to explode right there onstage. Mr Schuester’s doodling in his notebook; and Puck swings his guitar around, strumming for all he’s worth:  
  
 _“I’ve been inclined, to believe they never would, oh-no-nooo…”_  
  
His eyes land once more on Kurt, and Rachel beside him, wearing identical expressions of complete and total disinterest.

  
*

  
The music dies, and Kurt claps politely, avoiding eye-contact. He wants to keep up the show of not giving a crap whether it was Noah up there or some other foliclly-challenged Neanderthal. But fact is: everytime Noah sings, Kurt can feel his chest constricting like it does whenever he wears shirts from Lip Service, and he has these beautiful, scary memories of Noah's lips on his, and his tears smudging faint mascara-y blotches against Noah's really attractively chiselled cheekbones.  
  
As the jock exits stage left, Kurt shifts in his seat, looking at the floor and re-crossing his legs the other way and avoiding any vitriolic whispers that might get aimed in his direction. Beside him he hears Rachel comment, just a tad too loud to be under her breath:  
  
"Well. At least he's Jewish."  
  
Kurt turns his head and just looks at her. To his surprise, she actually seems kind of nauseous, and Kurt bets she's just as nervous as he was, as she watches Quinn Fabray and her posse of slut-skirts taking Noah’s place on the stage from the corner of her eye.  
  
Reluctantly, he turns back to the front.  
  
It doesn't make a big difference that Noah's in the New Directions now, he assures himself silently. After all: he's been hanging around for long enough; everyone’s used to him; and at least it'll give Finn someone to play with. He'll just be a particularly well-built addition to the scenery. He won't make any difference at all.  
  
Except...  
  
…Kurt doesn't know what he'll do the first time Mr Schuester pairs him and Noah for a duet.  
  
Because he will pair them. He’s a sadist like that.  
  
Kurt's staring unseeingly at the stage. The morosely un-amused expression takes less than no effort by this point and aside from being mildly entertained by Rachel's squirming next to him, he's actually a million miles away from the opening bars of the Cheerios' audition.  
  
But he feels the seat depress next to him, and he knows it’s Noah.  
  
Kurt fights the urge to re-cross his legs a second time, so Noah doesn't have the impulse to put his hand on his knee. But another part of him would quite like the other boy to try and touch him again. Kurt's stomach squirms, and he tries not to think about it anymore.  
  
Then, all at once, Noah's mouth is far too close to his ear:  
  
"I wanted to say I'm sorry."  
  
It's so absurd Kurt automatically turns, and Noah has to back away so his eyes can re-focus.  
  
"I..." Kurt wets his lips, glaring at the other boy. "..What?"  
  
"I'm just... I wanted to say sorry for y'know..." Noah's mouth tightens in embarrassment. "Tryin’ a, like, jump you in the middle of the corridor."  
  
Oh,  _that_.  
  
"Oh sweetheart, I live for those moments." Kurt deadpans automatically, and Noah's face falls.  
  
"Um. Ok. It's just. I want you to know that I don't wanna treat you like that."  
  
 _Clearly_ , Kurt thinks, flashing back to Noah pretty much throwing him off the sofa.  
  
"Well maybe I want you to." Kurt replies, turning back to watch the continuing performance. They're quite good, he thinks vaguely, distracted by Noah's scent sticking in his nostrils.  
  
Noah doesn't say anything to that and Kurt tries his best not to look bothered either way. After a moment the other boy huffs probably louder than he meant to and Kurt feels the movement of his slouching further down in his seat.  
  
And then he feels the movement of Noah leaning sharply over, elbow almost slipping off the armrest:  
  
"I don't  _get_ you."  
  
"What an unexpected observation." Kurt hisses back and gestures at the stage. "Do you mind, there’s a performance--?"  
  
"--For the longest time you've acted like you'd shrivel and die if our skin ever touched, and now you're mad at me 'cos I'm not trying to get you naked?"  
  
"Well excuse me if I'm not quite as accustomed to rejection as you are."  
  
Noah's mouth hangs open unattractively for a minute, as he tries to find some retort, but Kurt can see the fiery glimmer in his eyes dying like a smothered candle flame. It's an easy one with Noah Puckerman; the rejection card. It takes almost nothing. Kurt almost feels bad about it.  
  
Finally, the other boy lets out a sigh like bear being steam-rolled.  
  
"Well, I just wanted to apologise, ok?"  
  
“ _Why_?" Kurt finally snaps, twisting round to glare at him full in the face. "Why are you apologising? What do you want me to say? I’m not sorry for the song. I’m not sorry that it pissed you off, it was  _meant_  to, that was the  _point_. Oh don’t look all hurt; you knew that. I’m a bitch. You know I’m a bitch. You wanted to get to know me better? Well here’s Kurt Hummel 101—I’m an asshole.”  
  
Puckerman slams his fist off the armrest between them, climbing to his feet, and he's taken three steps away before he thinks better of it and comes storming back, gesturing dumbly with his big jock hands like he's trying to grab words out of mid-air.  
  
“You know what?" He growls, making a supreme effort to ignore the fact that everyone else in the auditorium is now staring at them. Even Quinn and the Cheerios onstage have stuttered to a halt, the peppy beat of the backing track like a tiny child trying to dispel the tension.  
  
Noah stabs a finger at Kurt's face: "You were mad at me, because I was scared to tell my mom I have a boyfriend. Yeah, ok, I was scared. I’m not ashamed of it, ‘cos _I love you_ , but this has been so messed up, Kurt, and honestly? I hadn’t even  _thought_  about how I was gonna explain it to her. But you know what I think?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _You’re_  scared.”  
  
Kurt breathes a laugh: “Excuse  _moi_?”  
  
“You’re scared of being with me, because you don’t know how it’s gonna go. ‘Cos I bet no-one’s ever told you to wait-the-shit-up before. Because you’re not in control of every little tiny detail of this, and it freaks you the hell out. I  _do_  know you,” Noah glowers at the rest of the row unapologetically listening in. “I know  _all of you_ , and what you’re most scared of, Kurt, is not being in control. Of not being in charge of the school, or the glee club, or this;  _us_.”  
  
Kurt can feel Rachel glowering holes through the back of his skull, but he doesn't blink as he stares Puckerman down:  
  
“Keep it up loser, and there won’t be an ‘us’ to be in control of.”  
  
“Fine.” Puckerman spits. “But while there is, I’m going to do the best I can by you, no matter how much you might wanna crap all over that.”  
  
Kurt opens his mouth again to retort; but before he can form a word Noah’s muttered something about needing some fresh air, and the thick, sound-proofed auditorium doors are swinging shut behind him, muffling his sneaker-clad footsteps.  
  
For the longest minute the auditorium is pin-drop silent.  
  
Then quietly, a few seats down, Mercedes and Artie begin to whisper; begin to _laugh_ ; and Kurt kind of hates the grating pitch of his voice as he whips round to snap at them:  
  
“Do you have something to say?!”  
  
Nobody replies.  
  
*  
  
The auditorium is Rachel’s favourite place. Well, at least, her favourite place in the school building. It’s a like a friend to her; in here she can stand in the spotlight, where she should be, and her voice soars above all the others, like she knows it deserves. If McKinley High is her kingdom, this stage, bathed in these spotlights, is her throne.  
  
The music begins behind her: the song she’s taken into her heart this week; that seems to speak to every sharp, cracked little emotion she felt as she watched Finn envelope Quinn in his arms, congratulating her on her audition.  
  
 _“How about a round of applause? Hey? Standing ovation; yeah, yeah, yeah, hey..”_  
  
She would never normally be silent in a situation like this. But something about Finn and Quinn Fabray has confined her to wordlessness, and she’s reduced to speaking with fuming glances; with her flat, open palms.  
  
 _“Trying to apologise, you’re so ugly when you cry, please, just cut it out…”_  
  
Rachel gazes out over the curve of the empty seats, a great blue wave rushing away from the power of her voice. The others have long since left; school’s over: but Mr Kidnee trusts her to lock up and she’ll be done by 7pm.  
  
 _“But you put on quite a show, really had me going…”_  
  
Today, New Directions has four new members. And only four, because Rachel’s grand plan had backfired, and the rest of the school were too intimidated by a glee club performance they could never hope to emulate to even show up. Rachel almost wishes she’d never suggested it now. But even with those four, the Cheerios and Puckerman, New Directions are still two members short of a competitive team. Miss Pillsbury is watching Mr Schuester’s every move like a buzzard, ready to report anymore lapses in judgement straight back to Figgins; Coach Sylvester seems to be lurking around every corner.  
  
 _“Now it’s time to go, curtain’s finally closing…_ ”  
  
Kurt won’t talk to her, wouldn’t talk to anyone as he stormed out; Mercedes is working up to a full-on diva strop… Even Tina’s eyes were glistening as she pushed Artie from the auditorium, and Rachel—who always prides herself on learning every nuance of her team’s dynamics—doesn’t have a clue why.  
  
“ _That was quite a show, very entertaining, but it’s over now…”_  
  
Rachel begins to sway with the music, losing herself in it.  
  
And then there’s Quinn Fabray.  
  
 _“And the award for the best liar goes to you…”_  
  
A week ago they were so hopeful; even the sticky blue slushie stains were beginning to wash out of her skirt. But now it feels so much like everything’s just falling apart.  
  
Rachel closes her eyes, pushing everything out of her head, and into her voice:  
  
 _“That was quite a show, very entertaining. But it’s over now, come on and take a bow…”  
  
But it’s over now._  
  
No. No _;_  it’s not over.  
  
Rachel presses her lips hard together.  
  
They might be being assaulted from every side; her own boyfriend might be betraying her; her mortal enemy might be trying to steal her solos… But Rachel Berry has never and  _will_  never be a quitter.  
  
New Directions only need two more members; then they can compete at Sectionals.  
  
Two more members. And then they’ll all be stars.  
  
Rachel stares up into the spotlight.  
  
 _She’ll be a star_. If she has to hoodwink two more gormless jocks into singing her backup, she’ll do it.  
  
Slowly, Rachel feels her frown dissolve, replaced by a perfect, beatific smile blossoming across her face.


End file.
